When

When you’re gone 
I can go to the seaside 
every week and eat 
fish and chips in salty air.
The wind will blow my grey wisps
and I’ll sit and sit 
watching bobbing seagulls in the sea.

You’ll be gone and
I won’t have to worry about 
cups of tea or long stays in the shed.
When you’re gone 
I can have bacon. 
I’ll use half the loaf in 
just one sitting, 
soak my slices in the dripping.

You’ll be gone and I’ll buy a van, 
second-hand, with a mattress. 
I’ll design my own fridge that 
cools as I drive 
and I’ll drive and drive
stopping only for water.

When you’re gone I’ll be rid of the 
poll tax this house 
the leccy the gas. 
There won’t be no doors 
and there won’t be no blouse 
of yours drying on the clothes horse. 

There wont be the glare of the 
big light on your glasses. 
No calling me ‘sod’, or laughs at my belly
your tuts your slippers 
your twisted fingers 
will fade into nothing.

And the bed will be cold
when you’re gone.