Every pay day, your job to prepare
the monstrous honeymoon suite.
Dragging mother’s dead-weight mattress into the sitting room
to fashion with squalid sofa cushions a crude double bed,
whilst she woozily opened another bottle.
In the bathroom, grunts and snorts as the lodger attempted
to make appetizing his goblin’s body.
Tucked up safely in your own bed,
you dived deep into a dream pool.
Following morning, wine amnesia spared details
except for blurred recollections of foreplay like pig at a
‘Has he left it?’ triggered a desperate treasure hunt,
notes stashed with relief into mother’s purse.
As she bathed with wine glass balanced on bath’s ledge,
you straightened the sitting room with madam efficiency.
If you have any comments on
this poem, Fiona Sinclair would
be pleased to hear from you.