for Niamh

Stop me if I get this right:
It’s seven in the morning
on Douglas Street.
I am blundering about the flat,
trying not to wake you,
looking for my keys,
already late for work.
I know I will eventually
have to ask you
and you will tell me
exactly where they are
but for now
I am fumbling through every
pouch and pocket
like a first-time burgular.
Defeated, I stand by the beside,
steeling myself, preparing to wake you
and suddenly I’m on my knees,
pestering your sweet, sleeping face
with urgent kisses.