The Cockney Wife
Nobody I know – honestly…
Always the same strife
like a knife through butter.
That cut, her tongue makes,
in my often lacerate soul.
My God,it’s not pain.
It’s the sameness.
Things best left unsaid;
opting for harmony instead.
And yet I respond in kind,
mindful of her brittle values.
I’ll use any subterfuge
to outmanoeuvre spite.
Night brings a well-worn armistice.
The sorry statement, made up.
Descending apathy, slipping on lip service
Cold comfort in a warm embrace.
© franciman 2023
You at your poetic best, well worth all the plaudits.
I wasn’t sure when I wrote this that it had enough in it? Just goes to show… Keep taking the tablets – the really big ones…
Thanks for the very fine comments, Trevor. My wife would not agree anent the brevity and relevance, however…
Nice subtle and occasional rhyming.
Perhaps needs the word “trouble” in there somewhere as well?…