He had a way of looking at the clock
when he arrived,
while undressing. She never
looked at the clock,
knew he’d leave
after an hour or two
and his fetish
was a way of letting her understand
he’d be home
as usual, for dinner.
Still, this was safe,
they could go on for years —
wait, phone-call, visit.
Not enough, but it was something.
How little, she realised one day
when he sent her flowers,
remembering her birthday
and she cried.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem