Working Lunch

You wouldn’t move as I dressed
and did the things I needed to,
to leave you.

In the passion-wracked bedclothes,
you were feeling sorry for yourself
I could tell.

I caught you staring at my legs
as I straightened a wayward stocking
carefully.

Using a corner of a tired sheet
I wiped a smut from the point of my
patent shoe:

you told me they were whore’s shoes
and I hoped they’d bring me luck at
the Exchange.

I didn’t want to start another fight
-didn’t ask why you didn’t get a
proper job

and to be fair you didn’t ask why
I didn’t leave for good and all to
live with you.

On the way out my mobile rang:
‘Hi Robert,' I said: 'lunch - client,
call you back.'

I knew that once I’d gone you’d grab
a pen, a pencil, or a pointed stick and write
about us.