Different Strokes...(I.P.)

Turns the key in the lock...opens the front door;

what of the house sans her; and where did she go? 

How lonely it will be, inside and out, without her, 

and quiet, so quiet...like when it snows...and how

she loathed that kind of weather.

 

How could life be that cruel and whose small, 

warm head would he stroke...lying in his bed –

stroke of midnight. Seemed the stroke – spirited  

her away, did for him, too; rendered him a blow 

deadlier than gun or knife. 

 

Lost the wife, around this time last year...but

he seemed over it, and to go, this way, just for a cat, 

a tad drastic, don’t you think? Never struck me

as that kind of chap.  Goes to show, I suppose, one

never can tell. Different strokes for different blokes, though. 

Ain’t that a fact?