The picture she’ll never paint
He’s greasy on the settee
as the dog licks between
his fat stubby toes,
tries to turn his neck by leaning backwards and rolling.
How long is it gonna take?
the match is about to start.
She hears him but keeps scouring the surface,
works hard to stay in the gym
and fills every room that he’s not in.
Regrets are resolved in a full-length mirror
smoothed out, down over her hips.
He hollers into the kitchen
I said how long is it gonna be?
About as quick as you were this morning
she mutters under her breath.
A piece of chicken at the surface of his soup
explodes, splattering above the sealed door.
She serves it up with bread and butter.
“I’m going out with Jean,
don’t wait up”.
She knows he loathes Jean, because of what
was burnt at her brother’s barbeque.
They sit in a quiet corner of a country pub
beneath a print of Bull dogs playing pool
and smoking cigars.
Jean smiles as she takes ice from her Gin & Tonic
and slides a warm hand under the table.