On the day
Mrs Modfig’s husband died

she was being rogered
by a Spaniard

she’d met
in Santa Fe  

staring at
the off white ceiling

with a
I’m being

well taken care of
feeling

and didn’t give
her husband

a second thought
thinking him

back home
working hard

sipping the sherry
smoking the cigar

feet up
watching TV

maybe seeing
that **** from the store

as he had before
no she was content

having this Spaniard
giving her the works

making the night
feeling young again

hoping for more sunshine
far away

from the rain
and her husband

and his moans and groans
and his occasional

rogerings
in their safe

and boring bed
and later

at the funeral
in her black hat

and dress and coat
and matching gloves

she shed
the crocodile tears

remembering
other loves.

"Will you marry me?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Well, for starters, I'm a sheep."

"Oh, come on, Betty. I'm nuts about you."

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but just because I've opened up about my life to you doesn't mean we are in love."

"But what about our after-session meetings in the back of my van?"

"That was two lonely souls feeding each other's needs for comfort."

"Betty! You callous *****!"

"You think you were the only one? Ted, the janitor, quite often shafted me as well."

"Well, I'll be blowed."

"Not by me anymore. Goodbye, Doctor. Thank you for helping me through the death of my little Tilly, and thank you for a few good rogerings. I'm going to make a go of it with my husband again."

"But he's shagged most of the sheep on the farm."

"Yes, but he's hung like a baboon."

"Okay, fair enough, Betty. Good luck."

"Goodbye, Doctor."