Interlude

Supine on the sofa, a propped slob,
glued to the box, snuggled down,
cushioned by fluff and passive smoke
from the old boy's roll-ups.

It gets too hot in the airless room,
a slow fug exhaled, ingested.
Stained fingers clang the tobacco tin;
he gets chatty with coffee and rizlas.

I'm a stay-at-home deterrent,
a passive watchdog, cloistered,
dour and docile, comfortably ensconced -
he'll stay dry and housebound

while I laze out the evening:
70s sit-coms, "Alias Smith and Jones",
kettle whir from the kitchen,
fire-raking and shoveling coal;

till home-coming laughter outside
announces her return, and she's back
with fish supper and meat pie,
and we're scrambling for plates and salt.

Three sweats and that marker is useless;
Joker Finley won a line;
the snowball's carried over again;
what are we watching?

She'll sit a while
then retire with Mills and Boon.
He puts on the OU after midnight-
mathematical models, atomic structures.

I hear whispered footfalls before sleep,
the street shouts in the night,
snoring, foxes, late cars,
lamppost light ghosting the curtains.

I dream I am at home,
will wake to a smoker's cough
and the clink of milk bottles,
while tomorrow starts another yesterday.