He used to get his thrills up in the attic
with a Kodak Instamatic,
flashcube popping to illumine your legs,
stopping only to develop and print
in the darkroom, for his eyes alone -
safer than taking it to Boots,
since that's all you were wearing.
Then - the Internet!
(sings) I wanna get digital, digital,
I wanna get digital, let's get digital...
Now the world can bask in the light
shining off your clammy skin
the texture of wallpaper paste;
your stretch-marks (sorry, lady-lines)
go-faster stripes for the bits that are sagging,
or sag-faster stripes for the bits that are going;
your nipples point southward like cameras
telling your brain about your unseen feet,
eclipsed by forty years of cake deposits;
your anonymity
assured by a thin black line across your eyes,
betrayed by the front room decor,
blown by the portraits on the wall
and the e-mail address for comments -
meat: the wife.
Wild Bill Balding
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/readers-wives/
