Fruit of the room

We’re in a posh florist
looking at window boxes
we agree that twigs should be free
but the local fruit is well-arranged
I write a message
In the Sailor’s Reading room
This is exactly how I thought this would be
We imagine we’re sailors
Desperate for a book
There’s a couple of real ones outside
Well-loved local characters
Waiting in the fog
Time for a pint
A woman asks us to sit closer
together at the bar
We’re not local or well-loved
but our knees are touching
and the Guiness makes me sleepy
as we drift into a second hand bookshop
No Children
No Dogs
No Backpacks
No children with dogs in their backpacks
Back on the pier the automaton repair man
fixes our expressions
lost in the photo booth
We look exactly how I thought we’d look
but later when we kiss
it’s an apple
Braeburn
delicious
and golden