Those Sunday Evenings

She bakes
always has done
cakes
crostata
biscuits, bread
tarts

She shakes her small
ass
in the kitchen
back and forth
side to side
it sways like a samba
beneath the light of the extractor fan

I smell the warm air
hear the hum of the oven
and
I know

The low lying cloud
waits
grey and unmoving
a soft dog draft excluder
blocking out the sun

British comedy chatters
out of small boxes
within small boxes
as plates of light
laugh

She keeps on baking
my belly keeps on growing
and
I don’t mind
at all