In the process of trying to understand women
a man’s mind will become like one of three types of edible egg:
perhaps boiled, perhaps fried
but most likely scrambled.
Thus as the relationship road curves from raunchy to rocky
and the fuel runs out at the crossroads between love and hate,
the woman calls AA. And I don’t mean the car insurance company!
With my girlfriend I’ve been so up, so down, so sweet, so sour,
but never sober …
and she has had enough.
The esoteric algebra of a woman’s feelings:
she’ll end up an ex if I can’t figure out why…
why it’s so important to her that the plants are watered,
the pepper pot is always full
and the toilet seat stays down.
I don’t want the ice-elation of cold, lonely highs
so I’m trying to find the bottle to give up the bottle
and see things from a perspective as clear as hers,
but this unidentifiable ghost of anxiety keeps clouding my lens
and these brick wall days are so hard to get through without
drams to ease the dread that everyday could be the one
she decides to treat me like a discount store
and offer a goodbye.
If I could just take a final gulp clean myself up and get a job,
I’ d be first in line to work at the factory of repentance where they make…
Bit by bit I’d put apologies together as her heart
came along the conveyor belt.
Apologies for all the times my romantic words were frugal
and the nights she’d make a three course meal
and I’d come home with a Pot Noodle
and things far worse than ink can reveal
and a page can contain
but I’d do anything to make her feel
serenity, even if that entails, for me, the pain
of a commitment to sobriety;
but if she asks me to take her mother with us on holiday again
I’ll go straight back to the Buckfast!
Dasein Petals © Copyright 2013
(This poem is second in a series of my #99poems poetrython. More information is available here).