Stumbling

I descend the stairs too early to care
if the neighbours can see my knackers.

If they’re up at this ungodly hour
and want to gawp through the crackled
Victorian glass at my un-chosen junk
then let them.

I am loose on the bottom stair,
rubbing eyes, nose and hair,
casting at imaginary trout,
begging for tickles,
in the dark pools
behind the sofa

where the sodium glow
of London’s lights can’t reach,
a pair of boots, to make them loom
monsterlike against the skirtings,
but which I let them do anyway
in the unloosening of sleep’s grip.

I am here, only because,
in sudden waking
caused I’m sure by late returning revellers
hopscotching in the orange light,
or by a car alarm raising its pointless cry
at the cocked leg of a stray,
I thought of you, older,
in a playground, spinning
while the other kids looked on,

and I needed to walk around to be sure,
your eyes were laughing,
like your mouth was.