Good grief! Has marriage rung this change in three short years?
Immaculate head-turner into this coarse drab. Who
Would have thought it possible? The covert smears
Spread wide by shaded rivals turn out to be true.
A town’s attention seemed the due of such as she,
A proud high-stepper making all the background fade,
Painted, coiffured, and polished to extremity.
Trans-am to Trabant distance from this sway-backed jade.
She’s helped me carry in their T.V. set. Her smell
So acrid, not the time of month or recent sweat
But grave fumes sounding personal pride’s death knell.
Night’s come. The once-resplendent sun has firmly set.
Her husband, poor fool, thought he’d won a golden prize.
Discounting snide remarks about quiet trips away
And sloven ways at home. Does he now recognise,
Regret, clues pushed aside when nature’s urge held sway.
Housework’s not her forte, soiled dishes fill the sink,
The broom’s on holiday. Space among debris
Upon the table holds our tea cups. Must I drink?
While some crow at her fall, it takes the heart from me.