by Antony Dunn

Antony Dunn

for Julia Copus

They never lock their homes this far from town.
He lives alone next-door to her alone.

They only see each other out-of-doors,
incurious acquaintances for years.

A chance remark from her, across the bins,
in tears, and he pops round, lets himself in

while she is out, with half a glass of wine
to leave beside her tissues and her phone.

He moans about the night-long owls and she
comes over with a sketch of him asleep –

stick-man amid a crowd of zeds and stars –
and weights it with two earplugs on his stairs.

She mentions that she’s heard a song she likes
and, two days later, early, she awakes

to find a new disc spinning out the tune
through grand new speakers in her living room.

And this is how a thing can escalate –
from her to him, in time of rain, a boat;

while no acknowledgement, no thanks is said;
from him to her, her likeness cast in gold;

and no, this will not end with them in bed;
from her to him, from him to her, the world.

Take This One to Bed

Last updated November 28, 2022