with paeans of love to their partner, their rock,
I think: ‘Why can’t you tell him that in the kitchen at breakfast?
On a nice cosy Sunday, all snuggly and soft?’
I get it. It’s all about celebration,
and shouting from rooftops:
‘I’ve found that soulmate, uniquely ideal,
and, guess what,
he’s still nice ten years down the line!’
that life can be fairytold,
though graft and tears and disappointment can slime it,
if Prince Charming will share it
and be staunch at your side.
And then I wonder what it says about my life,
that I have no predilection to celebrate or shout.