The old upright shopping bicycle
has the wrong saddle, a racing one,
more like an iron bar than a saddle.
I perch on one side or the other,
carrier bags swinging from the handlebars
full of provisions for the weekend.
It’s hard work pedalling uphill in the rain,
but after a while I don’t seem to mind.
Nothing seems to matter anymore.
As if from long custom, I hand over
the groceries at the kitchen window,
take off my shoes and go upstairs to change.
As I draw the bedroom curtains I see you
hurrying down the path with an umbrella
on your way to fetch a salad for dinner.
