The Honeymoon Is Over

Once we’d wed
and she’d shed
her fine finery
in the forested hall
of our garden flat
we downed
the last of the sparkling
and decided to 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 to be dead.
Que sera, sera.