Glass To Be Smashed

There’s always glass to be smashed.
The ball sailing to the shed
Mum open-mouthed with the secateurs.

Or her, in pearls and high heels
Weaving between the guests
With a tray of sherry and canapés.

Or when they divorced.
The men carrying the lithograph
To the white van.

Or later on the ward
Robbie walking to the window
Too slowly and deliberately for my liking.

Or when Debbie broke it off.
I’d had it with her aquarium.
Those fucking guppies.

 

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