Sunday Morning Blues Poem by Terry Collett

So what others may say
and she can hear them
thinking that or maybe

inside her head hear their
voices say as such as she
sits on the stone steps of

her apartment thinking of
him and his thoughtlessness
and sure it's what most

people think is the norm
guys being guys thing but
she can't help being saddened

by his forgetting it being their
fifth anniversary since the
first day they met at the gallery

looking at the modern art the
Mondrian's and Rothko's and
her favourite Lichtenstein's

and how he had been all over
her that day being all knowledge
and kindness and fussing over

the smallest detail and taking
her to that restaurant he knew
and the music he put on in his

classy apartment and how he'd
been quite the gentleman that
night not pressuring for sex no

expectation of anything except
her happiness and now sitting
watching the early morning slow

ride by of Sunday traffic and the
odd passing person and their
usual rest day greetings she feels

depressed that he has forgotten
that he has not called and breathing
in the morning air she wonders

now if he really ever did care or
maybe he's grown sick of her and
her wants and ways or has found

some other woman to love and
caress and kiss and take out and
maybe he's in some other woman's

place lying asleep lying body next
to body face to face and she hopes
maybe he'll ring or text or better

still come round with chocs and wine
and suggest they go and dine but
she'll not text or ring him to remind

or find out where he's gone or
whereabouts he slept the night
before no sir she mutters I'll not

lower myself to do as such full of
cares sitting on her apartment stairs.