Your House

You wouldn’t know the old library in St Anthony Park,
dark wood tables with green lampshades to lose yourself under.
I loved the foreplay of walking the shelves,
those beautiful paper covers. Open any page to explore.
I was lost for words in the car going home, a pile of books on my lap.

Your house has tall ceilings and flowers you’ve arranged yourself.
On our first date we looked at every print on every wall
and every table had a lamp and some of the lamps were lit for me.
The next day Terry Wogan was dead
and I picked up the phone and said, Life is short.
Would you like to listen to jazz with my friend and his father?

Almost three years later we are still here.
Your house still quiet and
your voice is hushed as a librarian’s.
You run your finger down my spine.

Candyce Lange

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Candyce Lange   would be pleased to hear them