Keen

The toothpaste lid is off
And the excess goo
Is dried on the sink.
The bathroom mirror is stained
With hairspray and soap;
Her old underwear is strewn
Across the floor,
Soaking up all the tepid bathwater
Whilst I sit on the toilet seat
Reading her my poems.
As I recite her favourite one,
She parts her legs
And reaches
For her electric toothbrush,
Sliding it inside her
And sliding it out.
I can see her wriggling around
Like a suffocating cat
In a brown paper bag,
Except I hear her moaning loudly—
Full of life.
I feel some wet toes
Coming from her bare, stretched out legs
Rubbing the tips
Of my knees as I get to the part
About the first time
We fucked—
The first time I made her cum
In a world before
Bed at eleven and meal plans
And nights in
Watching fucking Newsnight.

She shrieks like a banshee—
The toothbrush breaks
And she stops shaking.
There is more water on our floor
Than in the actual bath
But she is blissfully unaware
Of the mess she has made—
Both under my feet and between her thighs.
She manages to open her eyes
And refrain from biting her lip
To tell me that ‘the dog
Needs a walk around the block.’
The air is blue--
I am left
With an almighty boner
And the same sense of resentment
I’ve had for a very long time.
As I walk past her,
She grabs my dick and pulls
On it like a trucker’s horn
Until I spurt white mess—
Like the toothpaste—
All over her bare breasts.
‘There you go,
Now go walk the dog, sweetie.’

I’m not keen on our predicament
But I know it could be worse.
I write the poems
And she cooks the tea—
Life isn’t about spontaneity and butterflies anymore,
It’s more about routine and confusion.
Maybe it isn’t toothpaste on the sink.
Maybe I write too many poems.
Maybe I should just go
And walk the damn dog.