He did not
hold her to
ridicule as
she created
stanzas on pages
for the first time.
But in the pub
on Saturday night
he told the I.ads
the missus was a poet.
When the girls heard this
they wondered how she
found the energy
with the checkout job.
On Sunday she weaved no butter into his potatoes.
Clearing the table
she pulled a ‘Move over Butter’ label
from its carton.
He woke up
alone Monday morning
with it strapped
to his prick.