EXECUTIVE AUBADE

 

It’s Monday, pitch dark, and its five fifty-nine,

the alarm will go off any minute.

We’ve run out of time for what I have in mind

so it’s much better not to begin it.

 

Down in the street, hear the first buses roar

setting the sash windows shaking.

Asleep you’re so peaceful – a look I adore,

but soon you’ll be yawning and waking.

 

We could plan to live under this quilt for the day;

to face the cold world is a pity,

but I’ll drive to the business park, two hours away

while you take a train to the City.

 

Would you have me change jobs just to live here with you?

It’s a question I hint at, oblique.

You’ve cleared me a space in your wardrobe, it’s true

but you won’t clear a space in your week.

 

Do you think of me much, my sweet weekend romance,

though we rarely manage to talk

when I’m out schmoozing clients in Sweden or France

and you’re flying, again, to New York?

 

In a fortnight or so, I’ll be back at your place

with my bag packed for Friday to Sunday.

Will we ever achieve that divine state of grace

where I can have you on a Monday?