She Used to Dream of Better Things

The I, me, pyjama striped shirted

Ignorant, shout-out nutcase,

nonsensical words blurted,

staggered with burp and belch

under caustic breath;

ale breath, shot breath.

He gives a show of

none stick comedy,

and imperfectly performed

puerile knobbery.

“Huh! Huh!”

Pint, betting slip, kebab

“What’s that? Yea,

be home soon, Bab”

Tells her to keep it warm

“get ready for the ride of your life

you lucky, lucky, lucky wife”

and she giggles down the phone

but it sounds all too fake,

like it’s not for her benefit

but just for his sake.

Feigned excitement,

falsely bashful

as he promises her

a sumptuous meal of a mouthful,

and he winks at the barman and says

“who said romance was dead?”

the barman winks back

“one for the road? ‘nuff said.”

And one leads to two, to three,

to a skinful of piss

and he vilifies his wife

and marital bliss.

She sits alone, at home,

disinterested, waiting,

adorned in her sauciest underwear

bored of all the appeasing and placating,

but outwardly smiling with relief

because she knows too well these

private moments are brief.

She looks in the mirror,

locks the bathroom door

should he return unexpectedly,

groping and fumbling

and slurring disrespectfully,

and she looks in the mirror,

and she looks in the mirror,

and she sees within those

aging eyes ringed black

a youthful, vibrant, former her

smiling and staring back,

and she lets her hand gently search

for forgotten pleasure,

slowly, guilt free

and perfectly measured.

For a while she forgets the bad

and bathes in the warmth of the good

and she takes herself to a place

that he never has, that he never could.

Then she retires to her bed,

claims it as her own

and she relishes this space

as she lies in the glow.

and she dreams of better things

as tiredness grows,

and falls in deep sleep

before he returns home.