The Stubborn Occupancy

First to twenty-one wins

the game played above the net of cobwebs hung

between the mirrors of our parents’ cars.

Soon the shuttle will be launched

then lost to a gutter

and’ll send cards home

which only the postman will read.

Under a green tennis ball is a yellow patch of grass

that the rest of the garden doesn’t know about.

The sun hasn’t shone for weeks

and the daughters haven’t played for months.

Inside, the houseplant is a spy, leaves

turned down take notes,

the French press must’ve asked too many questions

now the nest needn’t be warm.

There had been soft goodbyes that dawn

dismissed gratitude and two or three silences

passed around on plates

like crumbling scones and cold coffee.

Stay, she says,

whilst I fry three eggs,

one too few,

There’s far more I want of you.