POETRY: HE’S FORSAKEN HIS RIGHT TO BE ANYTHING BUT SHITE BY PAUL TRISTRAM

Were the last worlds she had screamed
as he walked away from her forever,
yet, it was she who lied and had the affair?
He’s happy now in his little house by the sea,
where he’s half-tamed a fox for company.
The headaches disappeared ages ago
along with all of the stress and the strain,
eyes and countenance always look well and rested.
At the end of his garden is a little clearing
in the woods where he knocks together
bird tables and walking staffs for a few shillings.
Listens to Jethro Tull and makes homebrew,
along with wines, preserves and pickles.
The cat from next door sleeps in his lap
every afternoon from three o’clock until four.
He reads two weeks of daily newspapers,
all in one go, every other Wednesday,
when the street puts out all of their recycling.
Drinks milk straight from the bottle in the fridge,
only wears underwear when it’s shopping day
and eats tinned Fray Bentos pies for dinner
until he’s blue in the face, whenever he wants to.

Written by Paul Tristram

Barstool

Available to buy via Lulu

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