Thirty-six years later
Swedish Krisprolls in the cupboard
Port Salut cheese in the fridge
Two computers and a stereo in the sitting room
Thirty-seven, the first time of moving
The following year, a first trip to the supermarket
Yet the wine, the chilled white wine
Lost itself along the way
Psychologically, not physically
In the sort of depth of a passion
Towards, or away from, a profession or career
No, or yes, in that sense it was white wine
Do I read too much into your physicality
To replace fable with reality
Only I know, though I do do try
To let others in, on some of the goings on
