Now I Know He Loves Me

Now I Know He Loves Me

Now I know he loves me,
not because he told me so
- for words are the lowliest of currencies -
but for what he gave me.

Not for the roses, however;
cut flowers were on special offer
at the supermarket.

Nor for the Belgian chocolates;
half of which he ate himself.

And certainly not for the corset
which, though sensuously squeezy,
was laced with self-interest.

Now I know he loves me
because, at dinner,
he split the vegetables to perfection,
counted the potatoes two by two,
then took the succulent seared steak
and gave me the larger piece.