Victoria Cooper

In dull flickers of candlelight,
I have a famille wine with my louvre, but for the first time in forty years something feels a little œuf.

I watch her wrestle with dry bread and a small pisser appel, holding back a cough, she fights to chew another cheesy ensemble.

She shakes her head, while spreading jambon the final edge of her crust,
her cheeks buffet, wondering,
‘Homme marché amour until we buste?’

She lait her sticky hand on me;
it’s sort of hard to bert.
Diving into the final wedge of
cheddar, I exclaim: ‘Jus-aid we were going to cher!’

She takes her femme hand eau way,
I puff août a breath of relief,
but then she heads toward the douze, and I start to get a bit piste.

“I think I’ll put on my jamais,
try to get a bit more confit.” Surprised, I stop being croiss,
for a while, hoping there is morte see.

But, as she emerges bloated and clothed, deflated, I cinquante the floor,
and babble through rude words to ç’est, ‘Lord have merci, I can’t wait any mour!!’

With a kiss on each cheek, (moi, moi), She steps ouvert me and gauche to bed.

“Happy fortieth anniversary, Darling,” I mutter under my breath.