What will he do?
Will he eat nothing but pizzas?
Sleep in an unmade bed
on unwashed sheets, in pyjamas
that reek of sweat and hopeless nights?
Will he fiddle with tapes,
computer games, collect car numbers?
Perhaps he’ll neglect the cats,
smash up the furniture,
not see a soul from
one week’s end to another.

Do you imagine that when you leave
he will disintegrate?
Imagine this then:

when you leave
he will finish the garden,
sell the house and move,
fall in love again,
have children,
be happy.

And when you leave,
it won’t be to a happier life,
it won’t be an end of
anger and regrets.
You’ll carry on crying,
feeling abused and neglected,
resenting the waste of your life
and the end of your hopes.
Your health won’t improve.
You’ll miss the car numbers,
the obsession with tapes,
the dirty kitchen; you’ll dream
of scurfy hair and half-done jobs.

Silence will be just as sulky,
loneliness even more profound.