Preparing for the weekend,
I wash the cement patio,
and clean out the drain,
brushing away with spiky bristles,
the mulch from last year.
You sent me a letter today.
‘Sorry, can’t make it. You know how busy it is here.’
How could I forget?
Isn’t it strange,
how close we used to be,
and how you faded away?
The first thing I’ve heard from you in months.
I wonder, if we meet again,
will the invisible thread between old lovers
still suggest itself?
But I doubt it.
Sweeping the dusty floor of the tin shed,
I make the whole garden sparkle.
Standing alone in the cool shade
I think about your first letter in months
and I can’t stop my angry tears.
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