For them? Probably not. They’ll fend for themselves,
No? And these Sunday breakfast remains
Are mine. Croissant flakes, and the bitter
Ache of coffee! Dull clouds drift
Above, and the light is so dim and pure,
The pond a quicksilver sheen, and the ducks
Well-fed and warm, I’m sure. Shortly
A rain will start to streak. By then
We’ll be in the car, or at its door.
I want to walk and linger long enough,
Just, so that I feel the wet
On my brow before we hustle inside
To keep dry, and drive on home,
The windshield wipers set
At that slowest monotonous setting,
So slow you think they’ve gone dead
With dozing, till they startle with a fresh sweep.
Let’s linger then, and you’ll take my hand
Softly, warm, and long enough we’ll amble
So my fingers feel the first prickle of sweat.
And this biting thong’s about to split my crack.
Weekends with you, and games of leather.
