| Waiting The collar no longer smells of you; washed it by mistake. Pay bills remotely and Tesco delivers in the warmth of central heating - which clicks, fires up again, haven’t worn gloves since you bought me those boots - that sit by the back door like a patient dog, as snowflakes tickle glass. My cotton dress grazes naked knees, no-one sees me save the Tesco’s man; he wants to ask why tinned rice pudding is delivered in the smell of summer - and now it’s ice-cream, he ignores the irony, I do know it’s winter. Sonia Hendy |
If you'd like to say something about this poem, Sonia Hendy would be pleased to
hear from you.
