Cinderellas Have Stubble Too
By Silver Spun Sand
Wed, 08 Apr 2015
- 753 reads
2 comments
He always took his socks off...first thing,
then his trousers...shirt, vest, top, neatly folded;
never bothered with mine – ended up
where they fell.
Religiously methodical, he was, by halves, but
it was his way of saying, he only had an hour...
back home for supper at seven...as ever.
The routine was what kept us safe...
I respected that, but you can’t have it all;
more than grateful, to say the least, for the time
I had with him – a couple of sessions a week.
Something – way better than nothing...realising
too late though, how little that was.
An explosion of flowers in its gloating,
Lalique vase – mocked me with its sullenness,
indignant that flowers steal its thunder, was enough
to tip the scales; the text he sent, irrelevant...
Happy birthday, love. Sorry I can’t be there.
Hope these roses will do instead.
And my text to him...No worries. By the way,
this precedes a gift to you...a sock gone AWOL...
since our last ‘head to head’, sent ‘Special Delivery’ –
for the attention of your wife.
Found it underneath my bed...red
as the roses you sent, which are dead now,
incidentally.
‘Sock it to me, babe...one last time’, you said,
and I did....cut off my nose to spite my face. Only
hear this, Cinderella, balls aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,
so where’s ours to be...your place, or mine?
No deadline as such, except at midnight tonight,
your fairy-godmother quits...cracking up
under the pressure. You know how it is...
working double-time?
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1 User voted this as great feedback
family worries, how we scurry
family worries, how we scurry to and fro from that worry.
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