Away

Back from his annual London jaunt,
six hours by train, and one look
at his paper-sharp crease,
his top-of-the-range drape, emphatic tie,
smart pinch of his polished shoes,
the crackle of new money on his voice

and the small wife, waiting in overall,
cardigan, arthritis swelling her joints,
slippers for shuffling in, the shutters
down behind her eyes, and you know

not to ask too many questions.


D A Prince

If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be pleased to hear from you.

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