Under my duvet

I saw the man I might love
take a sharp right out of Waitrose,
with a bag of new potatoes and some half dead calla-lillies.

I thought he might notice
me caught like a leaf in the doorway,
but he looked very busy thinking about things.
I wanted to chase after him down the street
and ask him if he makes duvet tents,
if he can count the number of times
he has stopped to think about me.

Walking home I count drains,
thought tune persuade the sewage
to let him love me, to let him know
I keep a photo as my screen saver
of pairs of feet
air hanging under my duvet.