Opening doors
she finds only herself;
It’s Sunday now
the party’s dead.
Like old man Bunyan not yet cold,
just covered.
Mrs B and her gaunt faced daughter
Smile through tears, shaking
proffered hands
held out in mock empathy.

But Saturday in jersey black,
hips signalling more than hey, she
meets man’s hungry gaze.
Stockings swish, dude buys drinks,
anticipates. She follows
his emporio ass outside
and guides him home.

Riding high on happy coloured waves
they lock groins;
punctuating grunts with well worn moans
she leads him now to
little death.

Grief is grief
however met.