Anniversary aperitif

My Monday morning muse
has not washed his face.
The milk has gone sour to his whining,
and I don’t believe there are any
eggs.

I have often gazed at his shoulder,
the furrow on his brow, his
sophisticated jaw line… but today,
I heard him fret over the shape of his
legs.

In the shower, he whistled soap bubbles
and in his head, he shampooed a symphony,.
But his baritone yoddled off into a
high soprano, as I screamed, “Oh no! Oh please!
I begs!”

And then my Monday morning muse
slipped into garters and high-heeled shoes.
His dramatic swaying exit was
preceded by the downing of four hurried
pegs.

_

A year gone by, now my Monday muse
is the alcoholic wench who I watch
slink into my neighbour’s ink
before I slip down to the pub myself and help empty the
kegs.