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So many inches up
So many inches across
He simply cannot grasp
What my love has done to him:
He may as well be a frosted glass
Filled with carbonated lime water
And allowed to go flat
On the television tray
Beside her plate
Where she cuts other living things
With her heavy knife
Holding them in place with a fork
While watching her programmes.
When she has finished
She dabs her lips with a napkin.
What remains alive of him:
So many inches up
So many inches across
Is poured into the dry soil
Of a plant that barely survives
In the corner of the room.
The clock no longer announces time passing.