I’m reading Lorca’s poetry
whilst Leonard sings to me
on the hottest Easter Monday
since nineteen-sixty three
My poorer verse dissipates
dispelled by blows of blame –
She vaulted ‘cross my body
on her way to another game
He’s old enough to be her father –
she was fool enough to be his wife
Their papers have been posted
He typed out her loving lies
He will see her in that lawyer’s room
who’ll be paid to watch them fuck –
his hourly fee is twice as much
as she was paid to suck