The warm woman

Her right knee cresting
The handle bar,
Her skirt
Drowsy as a poppy petal
Pitted against the floor,

Imagine that in her house
She keeps a violin but only uses it when
Everything gets too brown,
Washing her hair
Is like feeding hay,
Her back, a piece of paisley

Is oiled and clean,
Her sheets yellow and orange
Smell of cinnamon
And clemantines
And cake,

You wish you could know
How she makes things
Seem warmer
But realise
Really it's because her heart is only tepid.