Trade Poem by Alan Hickman

You said your marriage was a failure
That you were raising a six-year-old son
All by yourself
That jobs were scarce
And you’d been forced to move in
With your parents
You said that money
Had always been tight
That you were a bit tight yourself
But you guessed I didn’t want to hear
About any of that
Me being a professor and all

I fastened on the line of your hip
Where it arched beneath the comforter
You lit the last of your cigarettes
And I thought

Love me.