of the Night
No-one tells you nowadays to keep your hands
where they can see them. Still, it has to be
a secret indulgence, something to soothe
after a stressful day - and fewer calories
than chocolate, less guilt even for a recovering
Calvanist than one too many glasses of red wine;
and a comfort when sleep opens the curtains
and, unable to pass an open window, leaps
into the waiting night. And whos to know anyway
under the cover of dark, when a couple of fingers
can so easily find their mark. Go on, Google yourself.
If you've any comment on this poem, Eleanor Livingstone would be pleased to hear from you.