Opening

Opening hour is for strawberry jam and sticky fingers.

I watch you unscrew the jar and release June into January.

Soft fruit freckles and blushes in the non-rain.

 

Here is a sweet, stewing pectin,

Borrowed from summer and ripening for now.

 

Now with flaking, buttery crumbs

That gild my lap like gold-leaf.

 

Now with ankles wrapped around bar stools

Where just before, nighthawks perched and slunk into the blue.

 

Here is a private opening,

With steamed milk and steamed windows

And the cobbles cloaked in a sumptuous kind of grey.

 

Two knives criss-cross the plate and I lick one when your back is turned.

It is winter still. The year is young and growing.

 

Customers arrive, buses hiss, coffee froths. And so, on.

I slip into the day and back onto the street,

Knowing the taste of strawberry jam will linger long

For opening up with you.

 

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