My bags are packed; I'm calling it a day.
After thirty years and much consideration
I know there has to be another way.
You're on your own, and here's my explanation:
For years I’ve hoovered every speck of dust,
I’ve collected dirty coffee cups galore,
I’ve coped with bathroom spiders (only just)
And I’ve picked up dirty pants from off the floor.
A thousand times I’ve bleached the flipping loo,
A million meals I’ve set upon the table.
There’s always one odd sock and never two.
I want another life while I’m still able.
Countless times I’ve ironed your pyjamas –
What benefit is that to those in need?
I’ve co-starred in our dull domestic dramas
And now I really want to play the lead.
I sometimes think I’m going quite insane
As I spritz the windows, venting my frustration,
For as you sit there, comatose again,
There’s a word that springs to mind: defenestration.
I’ve dealt with umpteen crises all these years:
The kitchen flood that turned me into Noah,
Power cuts and broken glass and tears,
But now I’ve set my heart on seeing Goa.
I’d like to say it’s all been done with love,
That my life with you has been one of contentment,
But I think that if you re-read the above,
You’ll notice there’s a tone of slight resentment.
You’ll have to cook your dinner on your own,
For I have plans for other fish to fry.
I’ll either be in Reykjavik or Rome.
(I hope by now you know the reasons why.)
When I get back I’ll train for a career;
I’ll never scrub another muddy floor.
I’ll be an artist or an engineer
And I will have my very own front door.
I've finished with this tiresome duet -
Fulfilment doesn't have to come in pairs.
I'm going solo now without regret.
(The vacuum cleaner's underneath the stairs.)