Epiphany

We laughed a little sadly at our parents' infidelity,
and promised that we'd never do the same.
Later, in the darkness, as you slipped out to your lover,
you justified deceiving me by whispering her name.

The red, ironic roses were still lying in their vases
as I tried to read the paper and pretend I didn't know.
Like an ostrich in the desert I'd avoid the messy anguish
of the crass, uncaring cruelty of one final, fatal blow.

In the minutes that rolled onwards I stared blindly in the distance
and I tried to reach conclusions about what I ought to do
with a lifestyle worth preserving, and a marriage not deserving
of the menopausal crisis that so many men go through.

I collected up the memories of the years we'd spent together
and the music that was playing all the times I danced with you.
I made mental lists of reasons why we'd stayed so long together
and they started and they ended with the way I feel for you.

But the words we hadn't spoken were the only sound that evening
so I made the bold decision that the silence had to go.
When you crept in without speaking did you think that I was sleeping?
Did you think it wouldn't hurt me since I'd never have to know?

Was it all the boys together with a knowing wink or two in a
conspiracy colluding to deny that it was true?
And our marriage vows were lying like the long-forgotten china
gathering dust beside a tea-set we were never going to use.

As I lay there til the dawn I felt the burden of the suffering
you were causing to the woman here without you in the night time
who was not some kind of skivvy you employed to do the cooking
in the kitchen,
with a sharp, sharp knife.