by Nick Gisburne
The teapot shared their lives for fifty years
Extravagant and brash, but so is she
She cuts a slice of cake and wipes her tears
Then adds a little whisky to the tea
She always loved the contours of his chin
Dismayed to see the hint of any beard
Athletic, rugged, handsome, perfect skin
The spark between them never disappeared
The letters that she wrote him, every day
Had made the war seem shorter, so he said
She found them, just before he passed away
A hundred, sealed with kisses, ruby red
She swung the teapot, killed him with her rage
For hers was not the writing on the page
