In about two minutes’ time
it will happen.
Nothing unanticipated, mind you,
since in one minute
and forty-nine seconds
the windstorm that was high-alerted
on the radio
will splay the curtains
like a deck of cards
and through the gap in the window
rain will enter
on its tall hooves.
You’ve got it organised.
So in one minute
and forty-two seconds,
and in one minute and thirty-eight-
and-a-half seconds
(as measured on Uncle George’s
stopwatch, the brass one with
the hand like a devil’s tail)
her face will be nearer
to yours than it’s been all evening,
and in fifty-eight seconds
(with thunder providing the SFX)
the downiness of her face
will move towards you,
brush against your well-organised
four-day stubble
and the pinked pillows of her lips
will open
(and the rain on its quick hooves)
and in seven seconds …
(heartbeat)
and in three seconds …
(heartbeat)
and then
in eleven seconds’ time,
in twenty-two seconds’ time,
in forty-five and counting seconds
fifty-nine and still counting
one minute and twelve and counting
and in a nanosecond just short
of two minutes flat
the poet will press the levers,
unhook the key,
halt the triple-chime movement on its chains
and stop it there.