Go to war and fight for me
I’ll house you in a substandard property with magnolia walls in every room that
eat your voice,
keep you buried in the gloom of other women’s glares.
Coffee mornings and his rank is yours
the stink of lost men clings to the room and you all pretend
it is not clawing at the edges of your skirts
like the children do on the school run,
to the one the settled folk avoid.
Keep those spaces safe for itinerant mothers pulled at the whim of a
game of Risk played in chesterfield leather boardrooms
from Churchill’s days.
They don’t see what we see, they do not look and
you are invisible.
I fake overtime hours to save my holiday for summer sun and far away beaches
(but not Cyprus, I’m not that cruel, yet)
and two weeks stolen Christmas bliss with my family tight…
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