night,
my darling husband
made dinner, again.
I was in bed
but he brought it in,
and fed me with it;
another cold bowl of lies
from the kitchen of deceit
that sits on his neck.
My husband smelled
like a half-dozen women
but the first spoon he fed me
tasted like, a busy work day,
a traffic holdup,a flat tyre
and a faulty jack spanner.
This morning
I made him breakfast.
His
last.
