We gazed at children so expectantly

and after thirty-two years of that

 

we’re still fondling my vasectomy

while pondering new ways of losing fat.

 

She watches re-runs of The Walking Dead;

I’ve got live streams showing Aston Villa.

 

She’s relaxed as an axe chops off soft heads;

I’m tense and nervous as a Psycho Killer.

 

She treats cut and bruise and self -abuse

with the same homeopathic fervour;

 

my solutions are not quite so dilute

and only stop this side of murder.

 

Our names are rhymes but our rhythm’s awry –

she takes the kids off camping out of season;

 

I write poems at home, barren and dry,

give them fancy names like this is freedom.