You are here
Creeping away from bed and favourite thriller,
you must wash your hair, again,
perform yet another make-up legerdemain,
clamp yourself into iron maiden jeans.
At 52, you do not listen for his car’s theme tune
but on scavenged paper list marmite, toilet roll, milk..
checking clocks you realise he is 30 minutes late,
an old wound twinges He has stood you up.
You rehearse a carefree Where are you?
for his answerphone indifferent as a butler
stretch out before ‘Strictly’
breaking your diet’s indefinite Lent.
Sunday, you are bruised by last night’s blow,
not for shame of the mini-jilt,
but allowing the man’s You have beautiful eyes…
to turn your middle aged head.
Tagged: Fiona Sinclair, Issue Two, poetry, Spring 2013