The Honeymoon Is Over

Once we’d wed
and she’d shed
her fine finery
in the forested hall
of our garden flat 
I made the decide 
to hide all 
ill-fitting illusions
beneath the ghastly
garish plumped-up 
spread out cushions
we’d dumped across
the threadbare floor
which could be read
as us already dis
-carding marital bliss
and that something
was amiss.
But not necessarily.
I then swept 
up the con trick 
confetti while she wept.

‘Don’t weep,’
I said,
observing the few chairs
we owned. ‘The future’s
not ours to keep
but the chairs are.’
We then went to bed
and pretended we were dead.
Que sera, sera.