The Routine
Her underwear, not as nice as the au pair’s,
has blown from off the line. Mrs Turner
choreographs the furniture, in order
of what matters. The sofa’s against the door,
her heart beats fierce against the dresser,
the armchairs rendezvous. Little amendments
are little less than everything and Natalia
does not dust properly and there’s two pence
behind the cushion and Mr Turner
makes no effort to fulfil her, the philanderer.
His photo will go back on the mantle
and his eyes will follow her, and Mrs Turner
will take her clothes off and tug at the curtains
and lie on the rug as if the rug is responsible
for the lack of requited love in the world.
He’s bought her no co-ordinating knickers.
He’s bought her no co-ordinating bras. She has
the catastrophe of her character, too much time,
the underside of the coffee table above her.
Four legs, a mahogany belly – it straddles her
on the floor, makes dimples in the pile.
