Still soft, like a sheepskin,
the pavement in the morning,
and a pale light bathes the street
like an open fridge.
Soapsuds from grey encrusted pails
move slowly past me:
I sit stiff by the steering wheel
waiting for 8.30 and
the meter, and traffic noise to
reach me, and breakfast
by the British Museum.
And news and love maybe.
I've been away too long:
our sleep still loiters under eyelids
the dreams still hold on tight. Through this
the tiny teapot waits for me, and
the smell of brown bacon and
individually suppressed strands of lust.
I must, I must
approach this early morning kiss with trust.