Quarter to Seven

Both of us in the kitchen.
(forty minutes)

You come in off nights at twenty past six
smelling of the ward and the number 12 bus,
your coat half off before the door shuts,
your keys doing their little landing routine.
I'm at the counter with one shoe on,
already half gone, already checking the time.
The kettle is the only thing in this flat
that has ever seen us both awake.
It clicks off. We both look at it.
Small applause for the small ceremony.
It has seen more of this marriage than the bed has.
It boils. We stand. That's the ceremony.
You put your lanyard in the bowl.
I take mine out of the bowl.
It is the single most romantic thing
that happens in this building all day.

Everybody wants the weekend.
Everybody wants the whole night through.
I want quarter to seven
and forty minutes with you.

Quarter to seven, quarter to seven
(forty minutes, forty minutes)
the kettle, the bowl, the key in the door.
Everyone else can keep the evening —
I get quarter to seven.

Forty minutes.
(forty minutes)
That's the whole thing.
(the whole thing)
Forty minutes.
(forty minutes)
That's the whole thing.

One bed. Two shifts. A mug on each side.
Yours has a chip in the handle. Mine doesn't.
Neither of us has ever once used the wrong mug.
Your side is warm at midnight. Mine's warm at eight.
The sheets never get cold. That's the marriage.
That's the whole of it, right there in the linen.
We leave each other things instead of words —
a plate under a plate to keep it hot,
a note that just says BIN DAY, underlined,
a phone charger moved to the side you'll need it on,
a light left on over the cooker,
a window left open two fingers wide,
the heating clicked on an hour before you're back,
the umbrella moved to the handle side of the door,
the good chair turned to face the window
because you like the window and I do not care about the window.
People think devotion is a big loud thing.
Devotion is somebody defrosting something
at four in the afternoon
for a person they will not see eat it.
Devotion is BIN DAY, underlined, twice.
Devotion is a plate under a plate.
Devotion is a chair turned to a window
by somebody who does not care about windows.

Everybody wants the weekend.
Everybody wants the whole night through.
I want the kettle and the bowl
and forty minutes with you.

Quarter to seven, quarter to seven
(forty minutes, forty minutes)
the kettle, the bowl, the key in the door.
Everyone else can keep the evening —
I get quarter to seven.

Forty minutes. A kettle and a bowl.
Everyone else can keep the evening,
the restaurants, the whole lit town —
I'll take the kitchen at ten to,
the lanyard landing in the bowl.
...Twenty past six. Key in the door.
(right on time)

The rota came out for December.
It's on the fridge under the takeaway magnet
and I have folded it so you can't see the bottom.
Four days. Same shift. Together. In the daylight.
I have not told you yet
because I want to watch your face
when you unfold it.

Quarter to seven, quarter to seven
(four whole days, four whole days)
December's folded on the fridge door.
Everyone else can keep the evening —
we get quarter to seven.

Forty minutes.
(forty minutes)
Quarter to seven.