The School Bus
the morning is a performance we both sign off on. toast, the smell of burnt butter, the kids chewing with their mouths open. we pass the salt, we ask about gym kit, we do the small talk. then the yellow bus idles at the curb. a rusted chassis spitting black diesel smoke into the frost,
Cambridge Old Boys
rugby season in Cambridge, last night’s training brutal, a muddy grind under the floodlights, oranges sliced and quartered for halftime, the sharp acid juice stinging like fire on cracked lips. one last scrum under the dark sky, shoulders slamming into ribs, the smell of wet jersey and hot breath, stubble scraping against raw cheekbones until
The Pear Tree
there you were in that ragged denim jacket, frayed at the cuffs, and your jeans hung loose on your bony hips in the hot wind. I stood at the kitchen window, watching you reach up into my husband’s pear tree, plucking those fat golden pears one by one. slow. deliberate. you turned and caught me
Harvey
In the pub, at my little table. Yesterday’s paper, Blair’s secret note to Bush — I will be with you, whatever. Tony, I’ll hold your coat while you blow up the world. beside it, a warm gin and tonic going flat, and a tin of cashews gone soft on the sticky wood. the country pretends