I still own two excellent French paintings.
  You show me another woman on your
           phone. A double-decker squats beneath my 

           window. Your forearms’ walnuted muscle
  remains strong. Donna left crumbed monkfish and
frisée. Snow epaulettes the mansion block.

We watch the sport until we hear another
  roar. Our brûléed grapefruits’ lacquer softens.
           Your mouth, frivolous as amaretto, 

           widens. Pitiless, the drilling overhead.
  ‘A— ’, that honorific you deplore,
has escaped me. Street lamps tan the sofa 

as you rise. One pellucid canvas frames
  the river’s pulled mirror in discoloured turf.
           The traffic is sparse now.