That Sort of Poem

This is not what you would call a love poem.
No, it’s more of a tangle of boots by the back door poem
a cup of tea and crossword poem
once the kids have caught the bus for school.
An ‘I saw a golden whistler in the garden this morning’ poem
and the rose that you transplanted out of season,
well it’s finally in bloom.’ That’s the sort of poem this is.

It’s not a ‘let’s have sex swinging from the chandelier
drenched in sweat and French champagne
at three in the morning with the stars falling
like diamonds through a casement window
and the waves breaking rhythmically on the shore
below us like a cosmic—yes, yes, yes!‘
sort of poem: we don’t have a chandelier.
But that reminds me the electrician called,
the power will be off until tomorrow around noon.
I’ll buy candles on the way home:

It’s that sort of poem.