by on November 23, 2011 :: 0 comments

She feels awkward because she doesn’t talk
to other mothers in the playground.
She thinks they think she’s odd,
not the mothering kind.
It cuts, but she can’t tolerate the children’s cries
for the swings, roundabout, and slide.

She lets her husband get on with it,
and do what he has to do.
She wants a lover.
She’s a size 16 and used to be a 10.
She’s a facade, a housewife,
trapped in family bidding.

On Thursdays she goes to night-school.
She doesn’t actually like embroidery;
it’s independence.
The class has a male, but she wants
a MAN.

Her husband should know her,
but he’s too self-absorbed.
She’s him in a skirt.
He doesn’t talk to barbers,
and has to change them regularly.

He has poor sex, so he jacks off with magazines.
He’s 16 stone and out of shape. Who would he turn on?
He paints a glaze, and lives a robotic life.

He has one friend who never rings him up.
They drink.
It doesn’t register that with his wife,
they’re so fucking


editors note:

We hear, “No man is an island,” ad nauseum. This one begs to differ; poetically, truthfully so. Bridges! Poets, all; conjure bridges! – mh

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