Twelve minutes late (apologies again),Mrs French’s unironed face sighs 'it’s all right,At least I have respite now you’re here'.A pastel by her husband hangs on the wall.His notes say this is the third or fourth stroke that’s done him in,She bends like a mother wiping spittle from his grin,A noble man in a double bed,Nobbled by the weight of eighty years.He waits with Milk Tray for my birthday...