He prepares for work as usual.
Shoe laces tied in a double bow
and tie, striped in navy, adjusted,
the knot nestling in a stiff white ‘v’.
His black umbrella spirals around a
tortoiseshell stem, faux, of course,
of course, he’s upright, erect
as he pecks the air, calls, ‘Back at 6.30.’
But it’s choir night at seven
so she won’t find out til later
his change of routine
at Tower Bridge.
© Jacqui Thatcher 2014