To my wife, Celia
Celia,
Haven’t you got a dressing gown big enough
to wipe your wet hands on that you need to
wipe them on my trousers? My old trousers.
Your head is warm on my knees. Not many
poems have the word Celia
in them, so
Google tells me, though there are a number of
poets called Celia: Celia Dropkin, Celia Thaxter,
Celia de
Fréine, to name only a few – maybe there
are only a few. It’s always a surprise to find
someone called Celia. It’s like greeting a sister
who just happens to be called by the same name.
I haven’t read any of the poets above, though
perhaps it’s time to start. Once you’ve
finished wiping your hand on my
old, worn, trousers. The ones I still like to wear.
