It must be nice not to eat dinner in silence (or alone),

not to see her crying as she adds honey to oats,

waiting for that spoon to be knocked out of her hands

then hear she butters bread on the wrong side.

Have conversation like stringed balloons, waving,

instead of wrists shaking on counter-tops, spite flaming

on black gas hobs, that clutch with their hot prongs.

Not to gargle sympathies while packing, catching the backwash

of that drink- it’s foul- choked, swallowed too quickly.

Ignore her strong, sombre hints of “stay, bear it with me”,

cradling her elbows. Say: not today, places to go.

And shudder on brass hinges. Grasping at the rail

to support my skidding feet at the ice rink one mild day.

But I’ve got my own life coming,

my own sorrows to plunder.