9 years lurching between
half-a-dozen lipstick-collared ‘aberrations’.
You kept the million-and-a-half London pad,
one Porche and the six-figure bank accounts,
I treated myself to the expresso machine, the olive tree
and my faithful teddy.

Double life hiding a score of secrets
couldn’t shift a singular stubbornness
until 7 pints bled –
1 left to make 2 legs walk.

Big red buttons marked ‘do not press’
have always been my weakness,
so while I was skipping past 83,
that house I laughingly called my ‘home’,
I found my finger on your door bell…
sadness swelled at the sight
of your ravaged face –
10 years acquired in the space
of 18 months.

And while I am lulled into a peaceful sleep
I think it must be quite useful to be a banker
for counting all your sheep.