Over my shoulder and barely registering

the rolling news of football updates

and possible giant killing acts

without mercy, I read

your poem and I feel the kick

in the guts, the relentless

cry of foul and the whistle

of finger typed agony

as your blood lays invisible

in my palms.

Let her breathe I urge inwardly,

let her feel this emotion

and all around me is silent,

the publican’s wife sweeps the table clean,

my untouched tea now fast evaporating,

draining,