The maid, the mistress, the mattress, the missus

His youthful bride
is now as common
as the toilet seat
Complete with ups and downs

He is fed up
with wiping under the rim

Sterile gloves rolled carefully
on upright fingers
he preps himself
With cheap bubbly smile

Outside, he braces himself
as turbid sky reflects a feral gaze
through smeared hotel room window

He blinks twice
as it crosses his inflamed mind
how many guests tramped in before him
He lies on faded bedspread
and sinks heavily
lost spring
of an aging mattress.

She’s seen better days.
And stolen honey
on moonless nights.

Heaving an impotent sigh
he thrusts out ungloved hand
Straightens his cover roughly
A cursory gesture.

Presses a crumpled dirty note
into the maid’s waiting plump hand
She stuffs her shallow reward
down a gaping pocket
and moistens her lips
Dampness appears
on her torrid brow.

As she exerts herself
to rhythmically churn
her mop through turgid grey water
Stinking of disinfectant.

A young widow rocks in her fireside chair
watery eyes fixed on starry night
outside her transparent window

He produces a smile
and plants his foot firmly
inside the door
Leaving soiled boots, discarded,
lying brazenly
in the fresh winter chill of the porch


In response to Rack and Smile’s reblogged post, “Always A Mistress, Never a Mrs,” reviewed by Opinionated Man at HarsH ReaLity

Leave a comment


  1. very interesting. the metaphors are quite poignant.

  2. Very impressed… I think poetry is a life long apprenticeship… We are all in the same boat as in the ‘still working on it’ part ๐Ÿ˜‰

  1. My colourful scribbly mind | Wildersoul Rainbows

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