Thirties

Your birthday came early;
shoots and leaves
from the trees in the yard,
fingers
on the glass
when we woke.
Too drunk to fuck
you watched with half-moon eyes
sly from wine when I tried;
the gentle thrum of cartoons through the wall
a sad serenade.
By late afternoon
a storm churned outside,
dark clouds burst;
the moon
a wink on the horizon.
You cooked eggs
while I slept
the whistle from the kettle
shrill
when it came to the boil.