Flakes slide on the window
as frost crawls under the pane;
in the gloom he sags in today’s suit.
Always pressed and draped, tie laid over
the back of a chair, yesterday’s was
and tomorrow’s will be.
He uses his fingers and drags out his face.
In the bed where he finds it hard to breathe
she lies asleep. He watches her, suit presser,
tries to rewind her then grips his shoulders
and fastens his elbows. Her wicker cabinet,
it’s pink top ringed by tea, is a cityscape
of tubs and bottles; plastic skyscrapers push together.
In the dark her skin smears like buttered chicken.
Each morning he scrubs his hands
to remove the grease, belly dented, soft against the sink.
His jaw works to swallow the blood and grit he tastes.
A clearing in the clutter sees a photo of their wedding day.
The landing light cuts flashes of silver into the glass
and he shrinks there, cuffs fall below hands,
trousers gape without a belt.
She’s wearing age like gold he thought would suit him,
but he hears the whispers before the speeches;
slit eyed guests, slack mouths behind order of service cards.
Burning through the picture, blanch knuckles
and crescents in his palms, the reflection shatters him.
Rigid, he should kneel and kiss the face
that folded too quickly, but his cheeks shine
and disgust drips into his collar. Slipping away,
with tomorrow's suit over his arm,
he filters himself through the gap in the door.
She doesn't move, though her eyelids shine.
Later today he will drink with friends
and tell them it was mutual.