Chelsea Bun

You are driving when you tell me
you tried hard to make that marriage work.
I nod. I'm eating a Chelsea bun
trying to listen
I like the way you sit too close
to the steering wheel,
drive with your nose in the air.
You decided, you say,
you'd stick it out. Give him a chance.
I pick off the currants, they are
almost bitter, hard shelled
where they're burnt.
You really believed it, you tell me.
I nod again to show I believe it too.
I like the way your sleeve
covers your hand and the gear knob
but I don't tell you.
I think how it always makes me laugh
to see bits of skirts or belts
drooping out of closed car doors,
caught.
Then, you say, you were just
coming home from the shops,
he was driving, you weren't even
thinking of it
and you suddenly said
'I don't want to be with you
any more.'
You couldn't understand
how it just burst out like that.
On its own.
My mouth is so full of Chelsea bun
I can only look grave.