FOR A WEEK

FOR A WEEK
by John D Robinson

My wife has gone away;
it’s only been a matter of
hours and I’m thinking
about masturbating and
smoking joints and
swallowing codeine and
the dog doesn’t want to
know me; she lays by the
front –door with wide
watery eyes and a very
heavy heart
and it’s only been a matter
of hours and already
I miss making you laugh
and those moments of
ordinariness that you
make special in that
instance with a smile or
a touch or a softly
spoken word
and
now I sit alone with a
glass of wine knowing
I’ll wake up alone and
then later, after work
come back home
to an empty house and to
those eyes of that sulking
sad hound of yours,
I don’t know if she’ll make
it through the week and
that’ll cause a great deal of
shit;
it’s only been a matter of
hours
and maybe by the end of
the week I’ll have a right
arm like Popeye’s right
arm and maybe, I think,
as I pour another glass,
that she’s not missing
me, not really,
but the hound; it’s the hound
she misses
and I understand this
for she has never hurt you
as I have done.