For Better For Worse

Cusses to herself, does Judy;
struggles to her knees. Evicts
a thistle from his grave –
hard-working, honest hands;
hands that scrubbed grease
from many a shirt collar,
many a dirty floor. Silently,
she weeps...but not for him;
rather for a life, unlived,
and kids she never had.

Breathes deep; fills her lungs
with stagnant air – nowhere
to move on to. Too tired
to think straight; endless nights
restless, on her side of the bed.
Old habits die hard. Evening
comes, and she bolts the door.
Still she hears that sound; a key
fumbling for the lock...smells
that whisky breath and feels
a sting on her cheek.

Delves deep inside her pocket
for a flask – belonged to him.
Downs a swig of gin; wipes
her mouth on her sleeve. Perches
on his headstone, as smoke
hangs low from across the street...
Only too aware that for fifty years
she’s been no more than a lackey,
and an on-tap whore. So, what’s
the next move? For a puppet –
ain’t got no strings.