Updated: Jan 24
I’m last to bed, first dawning rise;
though me, deep sleep throughout my night,
she slips unknown, brews pots of tea,
and drinks, as I, but mugs not glass.
It’s not the malt still speaking as
domestic violence prevails,
the kicking given, time again,
my partner battered, blue as bruised.
And so we sleep our different hours,
in separate, kick-boxing lives,
until I count the day begun,
so sling the covers, swing my legs,
desert her in first cosy doze,
abuse now ceased, in calm repose,
the end, bout dyskinesia.
D.V., DV will end some day.