Runcible Spoon

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He’s been shouting through the letterbox

that he wants to ‘come back home’,

but she won’t let him in.

How can she when he’s as finished now

as a scrunched-up piece of rubbish

which she’s had no choice

but to leave precariously perched

on top of an overcrowded bin?


He should think himself lucky

that there isn't even the slightest breeze tonight –

or else he’d be finished in more ways than one.

But, in any event, why should she care

if the temperature drops dramatically

and, still out there, he freezes to death?

Maybe it really is the only way he’ll get the message.


Let’s face it: He’s clearly in denial,

expecting her to give him shelter,

having turned up unannounced at one a.m.

(not that he could make any kind of announcement, anyway,

when she doesn't take his calls

and deletes his texts without reading them).


‘I never meant to cause you pain.’

Did he actually think she’d want to hear that again?

But then he rarely said the right thing

in all the years they were together.

He never felt the need, it seemed,

to make that kind of effort with a ‘doormat’

(which was how he once described her –

and though said in jest,

she eventually realised that he absolutely meant it).


Well, at least it's now gone quiet.

It's almost two a.m.,

and he's ended up falling asleep on the doorstep –

where all the tomcats piss –

after half an hour of drunkenly hollering through the letterbox

about how much he’s ‘come to miss’

the wonderful times they had.


If he’s still there in the morning,

she won't walk over him –

she'll get the police to move him on.

But, for now, she doesn’t want any more drama.

She’d had enough of that ages ago,

and nothing about that since has changed.


She doesn't care if he doesn’t understand –

nor does she.

But one thing she knows

is that she’ll never again let anyone

get away with what he managed to get away with –

and has got away with still,

no matter what it is he thinks he’s paying for now.