for Wendy
So time, for one of us, will carry on
in chilly rooms where either you or me
will linger for a while after we’ve gone
in silences on worn upholstery,
in orange paperbacks we’ll never read
by crooked lamps, the shadows they still throw
now falling where, for once, we’d both agreed
the lucky one would be the first to go
and in their rush, perhaps, leave keys and coat,
a just popped out, back soon that comes unstuck
to curl up in a yellow Post-it note
with two small kisses clinging on for luck
and, trembling on the fridge, collecting fluff,
the love for which there’s never time enough.
