But I lose the plot, see instead
your hand inserting the key, and mine
marked by the weight of carrier bags
closing the door. Then I hear the quiet
forgettable things: the low rumble of pears
tipped into the bowl, the crackle of cellophane
as the misshapen carton of paprika's set down -
And did we speak? I doubt it as the kettle's filled -
Bob, I really like this S. The title? By the Light of the Telly?
Smiles and thanks.
Gary
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