Poem : Pilot Season

Beside me, you dig your fingers
into the top of my hand
the skin edging white
a spreading pressure stain

“What’s wrong?” the start of
chained events unsaid
as our eyes stay fixed
on flickering screens

overrated BBC programmes
elongating the night.
“Um. Uh. Um.” You sputter,
an engine on it’s last legs,

and I watch as your eyes
swell to tears, another ending
I wanted, the perfect finish
of our year long sitcom.