LAST MADE CALLS

Six sixteen. In your arms again.!
I wished....
No. The time when I wake.
His thrusts like clockwork: each morning,
when Mister Impulse spoils me with
his latest gift of sweet words,
new beginnings, good endings.
Fast they are coming, jumping the queue,
wriggling into my safe
heaven of poetry,
cuddling up.

Today nothing like that but:
Where did he hide his mobile,
In his pants? In his briefcase? In his bed?
Was it him who phoned her, dumb,
waiting for a male voice to answer,
menacing her with silence like me?
Where ? where ? where is his wretched mobile?
I'm dying to check his last made calls.
It could kill me to wait
for the itemised bill.