Joan Butler : False Love

My mistress weeps. Not comprehending why,
I move to stroke a gel-implanted breast,
caress a silky lipo-suctioned thigh.
 
Her luscious, pouting, botoxed lips protest.
I silence them with kisses. Love you lots,
I whisper. Lies. The oldest and the best.
 
(My shirt-front is a map of crimson blots
of lipstick, with a black mascara streak.
The wife’ll kill me.). God, I’ve got the hots.
 
But still the tears make runnels down her cheek,
the sniffs are grown to sobs; the whimpers, wails.
I snap. Oh, come to bed! It’s been a week!
 
Out come her weapons – inch-long purple nails.
This doll, this forgery of womankind
who signals sex to all red-blooded males,
demands that I should love her for her mind!