Sunday, 7 October 2012

Third

I think it must be three, or four,
I've lost my count, not keeping score.
It could be less, it could be more.
I think it must be three, or four.

I know – I'm sure – that I was third.
Not wife, nor mistress. I was lured
by promised love, by gentle words.
I know – I'm sure – that I was third.

The first, a wife, now grey with wear.
The second, with the auburn hair
and me, so slight I'm barely there.
The first, a wife, now grey with wear.

Her perfume, to your shirt, still clings.
The fourth, a blonde, the one who sings
and talks to you of diamond rings.
Her perfume, to your shirt, still clings.

It is too hard to hide a lover.
We each must know about the others.
Change the sheets, discard the covers;
it is too hard to hide a lover.

So, tacitly, I give consent,
by knowing how your time is spent.
Not mine at all; a love for rent.
Still, tacitly, I give consent.

And, each time the thought appals,
I run with haste, escape these walls.
But I'll return to heed your calls.
Half-love preferred to none at all.

No comments:

Post a Comment