While unpacking the stuff I brought with me from the US, I came across a copy of NorthWords magazine from 1995, which published this poem of mine:
Worst winter in quite a while:
the guy who delivered our calor gas
was frantic, rushed off his feet.
“Never been so busy. And the other
boy I work with’s went and got
himself arrested — driving without
a licence.” We sympathised while
he put the gas in our heater and
then he ran down the stairs to his
van, too busy to be cold.
The living room warmed
by the oven, door open, grumbling
of gas; we’ll sleep in here
tonight, on the couch that
folds down, duvets brought through
from the bedroom where we could
see our breath. My wife asleep
already, ferocious body warming
the duvets; me in a chair, reading,
in a tartan scarf and red ski hat.
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