Intimacy these days discomforts. More our style
is the park or the pub, or three-minded chess
with young Kasparov. A bracket-dash-colon smile
implies we have no longings to confess.

Always, though, I’ll text a bunch of preset flowers
on the eve of her six-month scan. ‘Thank you, dear
heart, for remembering.’ Then come the hours
of worry (agony for her) before the all-clear.