i.m. Matthew

All day spent edging
the grass in Kensington.
Now you strut naked,
except for the Claddagh,
show bum and tanned pecs
to the mirror.

Most evenings we’d be
monosyllabic; just mephitic wind
from the dog or rainwater
plinking into the Harrods tin.
But tonight we take a vein
to the cinema

watch something beautiful
unravel in darkness.
Two seats in a cemetery—
you stuffing popcorn
next to a coinín
with myxomatosis.