I’m more southern:
cold hands, warm heart.
You’re northern:
warm hands, cold heart,”
she says.

A marriage of opposites.
her with her tv quizzes,
me with my documentaries.

We have similar thoughts
at the same time. Always
pass on the landing,
but never on the stairs.

Never room enough
for both in the kitchen.

I go to a cupboard.
Hear her huff and snort
behind me, as it’s where she
needs to be.

She’ll spin in her plot
when I’ve taken her place
in the graveyard.

“You’re always in the way,”
she says. We are one
flesh. I need a shed.

When out, I go my way,
she goes hers, so we double up
on milk and bread.

Clairvoyant said, “You’ll marry a foreigner.”