Night is returning to teatime. Soon a cone
of orange streetlight will be all he has to see her by
as she touches her laurel, steps inside her home
on which he’s been keeping an eye
while she’s at work, as no one else will.
Only the postie or Amazon opens that gate
and once he saw the latter with a parcel
too big to fit through the letterbox, knock, wait
the stipulated minute or so, knock harder,
step back, look up to blank windows for clues,
check his handheld, try next-door – no answer
also – and finally make the walk of doom
back to the white Transit. Adrenalin pumping,
he considered intervention, but how?
‘Did you need – sure, I live opposite, I’ll take it in…’
He’d learn her name; teatime would bring her round.
But he watched the box get tossed on the passenger
seat and pictured her frowning at her phone:
Hi, Sorry we missed you. We tried but could not deliver…
If only she had someone at home.
