Mondays?  Brilliant!

They don't come round quick enough

I am in the chair

Full jug of fourteen percent?

Plenty enough for the night.                                                          

 

She had her cushion

I had mine – with one between

Never sat on – plump

Perfect cordon sanitaire.

We had 'standards' to maintain.

 

Solicitous host

She’d bring in bowls of dips, olives –

Sun blushed tomatoes

“Can’t drink on empty stomachs”

I never understood why.

 

She left hurriedly

Without a last cheerio

I waved goodbye at

A head that did not look back

Mouthing, “See you Monday then?”

 

I rode there next week

Monday, vino, olives, laughs

My key turned the lock

No, “Who you shagging, my love?”

“…A gentleman never tells.”

 

Instead, nothing, an

Echoing, deep well, silent

Broken tooth jagged

Sour awful unsought truth

Banjaxed my sobriety

 

No more Mondays then,

No more bawdy laughs acting

Sober when her sons

Scoffed at the oldies’ antics

“Time you gits grew up,” they’d sniff.

 

To keep the peace the

Gits agreed, old gits do. “Wine?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“How will you make it back home?”

(Dead bottles littered the room)

 

“No worries, Sweet, it’s

The corners that are tricky

I ride better drunk.”

“Text me when you’re back home safe.”

“Okie dokie, you softie”

 

No more ice pan skids

On winter potholed pathways

No more Monday wine

Her woven wicker coffin

Suited her – she went in style.