Twice-baked potatoes

I come home and
you are making
twice-baked potatoes and
it smells
so homely and
so wholesome and
you turn round and
wipe
your hands on your trousers and
we have a potato-scented kiss and
we pour red wine and
I slosh it about a bit and
pretend to be like Oz Clarke
or something and
you are laughing and
we sit and
eat and
agree how annoying it is when
Coronation Street isn't on because
of the football and
then there's cups of tea and
biscuits from the christmas tin
we still haven't put away yet and
at night when you're sleeping and
I'm awake for once and
I can hear foxes outside our window
shuffling through our rubbish
so it makes me think there's someone out there
I watch you so close to
make sure you are breathing and
I touch you on the side because
I know you find that comforting and
you stir, and
I feel safe again and
the foxes get bored as we never really
throw any food out do we?
I drift into sleep
while the night freight trains
skim past our window
with their smooth warning sound that
rattles the walls.