Not Knowing Poem by Josephine Collett

So many ways
Within the dandelion-blown passages of time
Of not knowing

Her face
Buried against the innocent
Peach-blossomed cheeks of
her daughter sleeping

He leaves at seven-forty
Freshly suited
With briefcase, laptop
and mobile phone

Housework and talkback
Somewhere the faint cadences
of Puccini are lingering

She composes lists for him, for her,
to do, to buy, to mend; crossed exultantly,
Infinite lists

The erroneous, unjustifiable bank statements
Must be
Symptomatic of her mathematical inadequacy

Her friends
Appear faithfully
Midday, channel four

Honeyed caramels
Liquid sweetfire melting
on her tongue

Another hangup
The malevolent phone
guards its secrets

Halfway through a list
She sketches wild irises
in a meadow blooming

He returns at six
Necktie loosened
With briefcase, newspaper
And heavy aftershave

Across the table
Steam rises from her home-baked bread
Like breath in winter

So many ways to know
that
She never knew