Canto LXXXVII

You’re ill and pregnant, I am simply ill,
so I must shuffle like some ghost butler
who meekly navigates Victorian halls.

I do not complain, nor do I mutter
when sorting out the tea, laundry and food.
But when I change my mind on going out later—

I’d rather stay in, sate your shifting moods
with whispered pick-me-ups and countless cuddles—
you tell me not to with these exact words,

“I’ll be okay my love. I’ve got Pot Noodles.”

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