This is the case with this weeks poems.
They were written on successive days.
I have no idea where my head was, nor what sparked their genesis.
When she was older
their
marriage over
the
children a pawn
in
their ongoing game.
She
would tell her lovers
how
she had spent her
twenties
middle aged
building
her dream house.
Never
brick by brick
those
skills were bought in
plumbers
and plasterers
as
need dictated.
Her
husband to be
owned
a spit of good land
so
visions filled her head
of
a beautiful house.
As
if geography
could
grant them happiness.
The
tradesmen built well
for
that was their skill
the
walls straight and true.
The
opposite of the life
lived
within them.
She
would hurry home late
checked
her phone to leave no trace
he
would work and drink
occasionally
unfaithful.
Life
accrued around them.
One
day in her thirties
she
claimed she saw with new eyes
walked
out, took the children
he
had to sell the house
to
cover costs and her demands
on
his last night there
amid
all the packing cases
he
taunted himself
with
alternate endings.
He
left the key with
the
estate agent
then
drove away
his
life packed in his car.
The next day this arrived.
To Make Matters Worse
She
announced that this was typical of him,
a
behaviour to be expected at such a time,
one
that placed him at the centre.
He
had never opened his mouth,
and
so remained silent,
chalked
the day up in the column
Reasons
to leave her.
She
had no idea she had been weighed and found wanting again.
It does not happen like that often.
It is not long until the launch of Brooke Sharkey's new album so here's a couple of live videos to whet your appetite.
I'll see you there.
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