I came back from the shop, the heavy bags biting
into fingers and palm, white, tight;
a warm enough afternoon in May.
Janet showed me the offers, including some unwanted cheese.
I didn’t realise she was so short. ‘Hullo, love, how are you?’
she smiles, polite; her white hair showing maturity;
a tomato and brown bread, a late near 4 pm lunch.
I strip off; the clothes go into the washing machine.
The loaf of bread I bought is white; I’m not too keen on it,
breaking it up, throwing to the birds from the back;
an observing neighbour might, with effort, be able to see me;
the rubbish bag awaits fulfilment, half collapsed in nonchalant air.
The washing machine turns, gurgles, now taking a break from work;
bit of a lazy fellow, part-time employment,
the work’s a piece of cake; it makes good job of it, though.
I think of my children; I think of my wife.
I want to kiss her hand in the way…
no, no thinking about that; take your thinking, throw it away, boy.
I walk into the garden, with tact, but I think no one can see me;
the excavated interior of the tomatoes await planting by the rear,
but not going to put them in now.
Here, a windmill, small boats out of water, a sailboat up on the beach,
the murky farming waiting for crop or cow, or maybe the sun to come.
I think of wandering the polders, the Ijsselmeer, thirty years back.
The washing machine turns in madness, a high-pitched drone, a cry,
clothes lambasted in a whirlwind of frenzy; when fast spin on,
it bears a real resemblance to the Inter-City.
I put on new gear; being clean is something of a fetish with me;
now, everything’s washed, put away, tidy, the way I like it.
Time to put out the rubbish, tomorrow they come to take to the tip.
Now, the sun begins to throw on the front window, onto the mat;
on the chair, ‘got to know’, says the increasingly dusty hat.
Yeah, I got to know.
