When I second met you, you were still on the phone
as you moved mellifluously about me,
so I took in the cornice, the wide screen TV
a Felim Egan painting and two teapots dressed as monkeys—
they must have been your mother’s.
Your clothes were draped like a Chinese scholar or a priest,
you showed me a bundle of photos of walls liquid pink
bleeding to slate- and olive-spreading moulds before they were
replastered in your two-hundred-year old home. Then your dog
came in stinking of briny waters, carrying me back to Rocky,
I was about to say,
‘Hey remember Rocky, my grandfather’s dog,’
and then I remembered,
I’d only just met you.