Mother’d say, don’t go by
How blue a man’s eyes are,
But by the size of his bank

Account, and she thinks on
That now, taking a sip of wine,
Holding a cigarette, some things

You don’t forget, some things
Are branded into the brain,
Especially Mother’s words,

Her philosophy, her way of
Viewing the world. She pauses,
Watches her husband parking

The car from the window, the
Way he walks around it, gives
The door handles a pull, taps

The bonnet like some *****’s
***. Yes, hubby’s got the dough,
Got the big bank account, buys

Her expensive clothes, rings and
Pretty much other things, but love,
Affection, that sitting side by side

Holding hands and kissing sort
Of thing, he just can’t bring, has
No clue what to say or what to do.

Sure he has the connections, the
Right kind of friends, takes her
To parties, to functions, gets her

To meet the Mr Bigs and their hold
On the arm, give a pretty smile, wives,
But he doesn’t give her love, or know

How she feels or if she wants children
Or not or how well she is or if she’s
Got the pox. Sure, he can **** her as

Good as the next guy, give her a car,
A necklace, get her to see Paris, Venice
Or wherever, but he can’t give her that

Deep down sense of being wanted, of
Being needed for who she is, just like
The rest of the wives she knows, an arm

Hanging, pretty smile wearing, well dressed,
Bright eyed wife, but unloved, unneeded
Just another possession for him to have

And hold, with a beautiful complexion,
But with a heart grown bitter and cold.