No Strings Attached

Mutters to herself –
the old girl in widow’s weeds.
Picks a nettle from his grave –
calloused hands that rubbed Brylcream
from many a shirt collar –
scrubbed many a floor.

Dry-eyed, she weeps
but not for him; she weeps
for life unlived and songs, unsung.

She breathes deep. Fills her lungs
with stagnant air with nowhere
to move on. Eyes red-rimmed
from sleepless nights – restless
on her side of the bed. Old habits
die hard.

Of an evening she bolts the door
but still dreads that noise –
a key that fumbles for the lock.
Still, she feels the back of his hand
sting her cheek.
“Where’s my tea?
Ain’t it ready yet? Lazy bitch!”

From her pocket
pulls out a silver hip-flask
belonged to him. She knocks back,
big style, a nip of gin.
From the allotment
across the road
smoke hangs low.

She’s only too aware
for forty years she’s been
no more than his lackey. Or even
worse than.

So, what’s the next move?
For a marionette
with all its strings broke.