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Threads by Laurence McKeown

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Discontented Husband

McKeown, Laurence


Thug.
Yes, you.
I see through your façade.
That elegant blouse clings to a breast
that holds no heart.
Those shapely legs in fashionable culottes
power stiletto heels into
my brain.

Yes, you,
Thug.
Your carefully coloured lips smile
for others but
mouth jagged words to me.
Painted eyelashes meet in a gesture of disdain.
I’m dismissed
with a toss of auburn locks
a flick of manicured hand.

Thug,
tattoo your knuckles,
shave your head,
wear Bovvers,
chew gum.
That way we’ll recognise you,
and avoid you.

And by the way,
Thug,
the dishes still aren’t done.

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