By Flo Wen
If ever I could walk away
And leave her on her own,
I’d plan the perfect leaving day –
But one that I’d postpone.
For Monday’s when we lie in bed
Before the week’s restart –
Between us: those three words unsaid –
And dread our days apart.
On Tuesday nights we’re reading things,
The weekend left behind.
Our supper’s what delivery brings,
The place she ‘doesn’t mind’.
By Wednesday we have mastered roles
Of boring parts to play.
She pours the milk, I lay the bowls,
And breakfast starts the day.
And Thursday’s time for restlessness
That manifests itself:
Complaints and faults we can’t suppress
Or keeping to ourselves.
But restless turns to passion when
We see the light ahead;
Friday brings her smile again
And those three words are said.
They linger through to Saturday,
When going out’s a ‘must’.
It’s fine by me; content she’ll stay
And passion turns to lust.
Yet Sunday’s been our stay-in night,
Her tired eyes don’t shine:
Their Easter-blue and yellow white,
The opposite of mine.
You see, there’s really not a chance,
Amidst all that, to go.
I’d miss what people call romance;
The pattern’s all I know.