No rain for two weeks
and the pumpkins grow rampant in the July sun:
shiny, orange footballs lolling on the earth.
The garden shrinks.

The Italian lodger sleeping in the spare room
looks dubious at their growing,
walks around the house practising the word –
pumpkin, pumpkin.

He forgets it the next day, goes out
to fuck boys in the baked Oxford meadows,
observes the pumpkin progress
with a face like guilt, eyebrows in a line.

He phones home to his papa and fidanzata:
I love it here: the colleges, the history...
yes, I miss you too. But my English
is improving – I will stay longer.

Later in the moonlight, he lies wide awake,
feels every globe swelling:
a sheen of expectation, root like a claw.
The bedroom walls shrink.

He leaves me tearfully – to go back to Milan,
his suitcases full of English Breakfast Tea;
insists on one last visit to look at the monster.
Pumpkin, pumpkin, he mouths in silence.

In another week, I cut the stalks,
lay the heavy, orange flesh on the draining board.
The lawn lies reclaimed,
tame as a living room carpet.