The house itself gave warning in some strange and subtle way
His fingers on the door knob sensed its feelings of dismay.
That the house’s structure could convey the possibility
Of death within, he had no doubt. And yet, how could that be?
His wife, it had to be his wife, had seemed much brighter,
More decisive somehow, in the morning when he left her.
Was she just out and did misreading of the emptiness
Give force to latent fears? A forlorn hope and believed less
And less, as silent rooms, now much more clean and tidy
Than recent months had seen, conveyed their sad finality.
He found the spa pool warm as was the body of his wife
Head sunk in water red from savaged wrists that drained her life.
The bloody…stupid…selfish…tart! To drop him in this mess.
She’d had everything she needed. He’d been faithful (more or less).
He’d put up with her grizzles, more than patiently, he’d say,
Yet lately a perverse malignancy had come to stay.
Despair at the injustice in the world and of her own.
Foolish destructive thinking as repeatedly he’d shown.
Beneficiaries, dole bludgers, all the whingers of THAT class,
His cure for all of them would be a swift kick up the arse.
He’d told her to buck-up, “FORGET those bastards overseas.
Let THEM sort out their wars and their starvation and disease.”
World problems were historic and they never would destroy it
He’d worked hard to make their pile. Why couldn’t the bitch enjoy it?