Day Night

The post woman unzips the drive, letterbox peaks open,
then shuts sharply, eyelids heavy, lashes interlocked
like a Venus flytrap. She puts handwritten letters on top,
we but more money in her hand at Christmas.

Envelopes drop on the coffee coloured mat
like sugar lumps or sachets of brown cane,
which wakes the dog, which wakes the baby,
who wakes the brother, who wakes the parents,
who look at the triangle of light, like a white shirt
between black curtains, which are separated

immediately, as if they’d done something very
very naughty, which they blame each other for
all day, keep their distance, until night,
when they meet and everything is forgiven.