A PAIR OF SLIPPERS
When you first met
he was slugging Jamesons
and you were drinking orange squash.
You had a butterfly broach
attached to your jacket,
he had a knuckle duster
tucked in his pocket.
You had a freckle on your cheek,
he had a tattoo of a snake
coiled round his neck.
You loved Cliff Richard.
His bag was Gene Vincent.
You liked gladioli.
He collected motorbikes.
Now you sit in this cafe
having breakfast together
sharing the same pot of tea.
He gives you his mushrooms,
you give him your toast.
After all these years
you’ve been wearing away
like two moving parts
rubbing together
until they stick.
Michael Stewart
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