She often thinks, maybe her marriage would have survived if she had not been a superbitch, a problem wife, but in the end though it’s the only life she knows. She glows when it’s dark and when it’s dark she comes alive, her spirit, her very soul is 17% plus proof. She hates the jolly jape of regular folk, the small talk, the smiles, she hides behind a persona of heavy makeup and 20 cigarettes.
She only married because she believed it’s what women do, she never loved her husband. When she was a girl she used to pair her dolls off with her brother’s action figures as prostitutes, albeit at the time not knowing what prostitutes were.
Now alone, her business thriving, antiques and collectables and the odd fake or two. She squeezes into her skinny jeans once more, her accomplice another bore, her destination another trade fair. Paste tables at the ready and in the back of her 4×4. Her sickly sweet perfume fills the car, chart music on the sound system, even though she was a Bowie groupie once. Off she goes.
Written, 17th may 2015.
Unmarked, vintage Toby Jug.
Political Poems & Others 