Creeping away from bed and favourite thriller,
you must wash your hair, again,
perform yet another make-up legerdemain,
clamp yourself into iron maiden jeans.
At 52, you do not listen for his car’s theme tune
but start to list the weekly shop,
checking clocks you realise he is 30 minutes late,
an old wound’s twinge He has stood you up.
You rehearse a carefree Where are you?
to implant in his deaf mobile phone.
Stretch out before Strictly Come Dancing,
breaking your diet’s indefinite Lent.
Sunday, you find bruising from last night’s knock,
not the shame of the mini-jilt ,
but allowing the man’s You have beautiful eyes…
to turn your middle aged head.