The Poet’s Wife

Posted: December 2, 2018 in Chat
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All he remembered was her undressing
and tuning into the night sounds of Venice.
For her it was the night fragmenting
around their son’s cough, and all that went with this.
She purposely did not look his way, to not betray
her irritation: He obviously would not
be fretting all night. Sleep had taken him anyway.
At least he won’t be pestering: she just could not.

The setting perfect, a cheap flight.
She blamed herself for coming to this bathtub’s
off-season chilly canals; the vapour rub
much more expensive here. She thought it might.
She counted off the minutes to their departure,
one for each cough. She wrote this
threw it away.

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