Waking
on a Saturday
Without alarm
Unaware of clocks
An absence of sounds
The children are making
In another house
My arm is sprawled
Across a wide bed where
Their mother. Their mother
Is listening to giggles
The way the eyes grow wide
I hear a finger
Scratching the bedsheet
And echoes of cupboards
Wrappers and bowls, how
Ben Ben entered kiss-first
In other words…
Their mother was called
My wife and the house fell silent
With a fruit basket of decisions
And peering into memory
Wide as an old bed
That served a purpose
Upon waking, eyes as slits
When the silence cries
On a Saturday morning
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