He presses his beard into the pillow
above her shoulder, closes his eyes,

careful not to let skin-hair touch skin,
thinks of nothing but the function,

knows what she wants, a memory
of kissing her is distant. There are no groans,

just creaks in the bed. It can creak all it likes
now the last child has left home.

His heartbeat barely rises, pounding without care,
elbows not caring to support his weight like they used to.

To think of other women would be a sin, a big sin.
He wants to hurt her. Hurt her. Hurt her.

Then he showers, she purrs like a cat
sits up naked and pollutes

the bedroom with Silk Cut cigarettes.
The sight of her warped tits disgusts him.

He makes for his single bed
in the same room; sleeps quickly.