Both of them live down my street,
in a shop that sells everything.
The man, a generous giant
flesh spilling over his waistband,
belt holding on for dear life.
When you walk past,
just before he hails you
with a cheerful grunt
you hear “baby’m”
rolling off wet lips like syrup.
His wife, a tiny wisp of a lady
all veins and cords and nerves
and dry knees that spark when they rub
and when she speaks, it’s a whispering hum,
like paper-thin wings brushing against glass.
Above the buzzing air of the shop
you’ll hear his belly laughs
hanging like smoked meat on strings
Her silence keeping the chords taut.
I have wondered how they do it
and I pictured this rhino of a man
rutting and tutting atop the lady bee
like a diesel locomotive
with all the words she saved for the night
swarming out like a hornet’s nest
over a bed creaking for help.
Or maybe the bee stays atop,
for fear of breaking.
Could be.
But with all these children
running wild like scattered coins,
I know they do it often.
And well.
