A Month’s Trial…
Attempting to butch up your girly home,
you consign Marilyn cushions to the spare room,
replace boudoir duvets with dark covers.
Underwear entwining in ‘a big wash’,
your vegetarian trolley re-discovers
the meat counter at Tesco’s.
His ‘You’re trying too hard’
is drowned out by the vacuum cleaner.
But after years of solitary living,
you long to replace your siren shift
with comfy leggings and Tee shirt,
stretching out in your bed like a cat before a fire.
Read a chapter on the loo
encouraging your coy bowels to poo
without anxious ‘Are you alright? ’up the stairs.
And when he blames village water for his unruly hair,
mock winces at your cheese grater towels,
will not exchange constitutional beach walk for bridle paths;
it becomes clear that you are some way off
handing in sea view keys
and adding his name to your rent book.
If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be
pleased to hear from you.