Coming Back

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.