Oboe (2)

‘If my love
had an hourly rate
you’d be bankrupt.’

This she told him
whilst he was making
cheese on toast and she

was hanging herself against his back
stroking his spine like a long
oboe. He said:

‘yes –
but if it did
it wouldn’t be love, would it?’

She agreed
lacing her fingers into his jeans
five slim others making tea,

two thin cups
painted Klimt – bright
over porcelain.

Pausing
as she lifted up the fluted rim
she pointed to the

two blue lovers, moon skins
painted in a swirl of russet
gold hands clutching

at each others faces.
She pressed her cheek
against his palm

and turned about
against his mouth
and told him –

‘see?’ –
still as a lizard
‘just like in the painting.’

He said: ‘yes.’
And smoothed her hair.
Stirred the milk.

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