Missing you, my borrowed boy.

Now I don’t have to swish your empty bath round
I miss you.
No more clucking over piles of jeans and shirts
Cast hurriedly at the end of the bed.
Clods of garden mud fallen from your boots
When you’ve been told a million times,
Yes! A million times!
To take them off Boy!
Leave them under the trailer, outside.
No more bunk to make, clean under, to store your bedding.
Wondering how you could be so careless with your change.
Dropped anyhow.
Twenty pences buy stuff, my lad.
Money costs!
Tempted to keep the quids, I stack them on the kitchen top
Knowing your grin when you find them later.

You’re a good boy.
You’ve a good heart.
Rough handful, all the same.

Feeding you feeds me and nothing,
Nothing makes my heart gladder than your hug
When, belly full, you stretch and say,
It’s bed for me.
And there it is, clean again.
Ready for you.

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