A Small Keen Wind
My wife, for six months now in sinister
Tones, has muttered incessantly about divorce,
And, since of the woman I’m fond, this dark chatter
Is painful as well as a bit monotonous.
Still, marvel one must, when she fishes out of that trunk,
Like rags, my shadier deeds for all to see
With ‘This you did when sober, and that when drunk’,
At the remarkable powers of memory.
For although I wriggle like mad when she whistles up
Some particularly nasty bit of handiwork,
The dirty linen I simply cannot drop,
Since ‘Thomas Blackburn’ is stitched by the laundry mark.
So I gather the things and say ‘Yes, these are mine,
Though some cleaner items are not upon your list’,
Then walk with my bundle of rags to another room
Since I will not play the role of delinquent ghost
And be folded up by guilt in the crook of an arm.
I saw tonight – walking to cool the mind –
A little moonshine on a garden wall
And, as I brooded, felt a small, keen wind
Stroll from the Arctic at its own sweet will.