He is a boring man,
wears the same 3 shirts
In a cycle,
Eats the same curried
Mackerel,
From a can each day.

Was it a bad past experience,
Is this PTSD?
I’ve never known and I guess
I never will,
That’s all it is to me.

For our thirty three years
Of marriage,
I have never been able to
Get a peak,
Or even a glimpse into the
darkness,
His Christmas Eve outings

But at 10 o clock sharp,
On the bitter 24th,
Noel puts on a red suit
And heads out the door.

I should question what,
He’s been getting up to,
But I fear for the answer,

He’s coming home, and
As I pray, the smell of
Bleach and dead meat
Sleigh-ride my way.

He scares me; his eyes dead,
Drinking whisky, and Looking straight ahead at a black and
White picture of my niece,
Pounding into my flesh before
Taking another swig...