Because I’m here with you tonight

in this late summer garden that we’ve made,

drinking this wine our work has paid for,

laughing at something you’ve just said

(which I might well have said myself

if I’d been quicker), while our children

watch TV inside, and this old cat of ours jumps

from my lap onto yours, I’m not

on a yacht with Bob de Niro, not

closing a deal in Singapore, not

waiting for a taxi to take me across town, not

eating supper with someone else six streets away,

not naked, drunk and helpless under a viaduct.