The mistress

Yet another poem from the out-take pile. I must try harder…

The Mistress


That dress? What d’you think? Or maybe this dress?

These shoes? Tell me what you would prefer.

Doesn’t matter who, my wife or mistress:

I guess what each expects, and then concur.

The question is identical in hideaway or house:

My secret lover is the same as if she were my spouse.


It’s not to say that I’m all pipe-and-slippers,

Or careless how my pair of women look.

But both of them could dress as bodice-rippers

Or harlots hanging round a Turkish souk:

I do not mind. In fact I have begun to wonder whether

It might be better if they shared a happy home together.


I thought they’d cater to my different needs,

Would spice my life by offering me change.

My wife, I fancied, might be wearing tweeds,

My mistress more exotic, scarlet, strange.

But now I’ve found they’re really just extensions of each other.

And does my bum … That does it. I am going back to Mother.


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