We are, both, naked, bedded,
but still winter duvet-pinned,
the throaty pigeons’ monologue,
our only laid-in disturbance.
Outside, the town is still,
no step, truck, rush,
beyond the open sash –
the first warm night this year.
Two ten pound leads engaged,
those roped-in counterweights,
taking that window’s wind-rattle,
now the immobile heat has arrived.
The kids, old enough to sleep into light,
one more hour, we say, without agreeing,
to anything else, even with us being
naked, pinned, and laid.