My husband who was driving thought it had
been written by a frustrated philosopher.
He came straight home and wrote an essay—

She was only a woman, and no more 
than his latest wife who was commanded 
not to come before him without the grant

Of course it was animus projection
or neurosis or even a psychotic
episode. It was codependence and

           Once more
  The rain coerces memory,
  And shadows cast upon the door 

The Colonel didn’t like him (my guess).
He called him Mr. Wilkinson-Noble
(there was another officer in the unit called Wilkinson).

They dribble down the High Street/ in dribs and drabs, on sticks,
the wrinkle-faced old women,/ the men with “past it” pricks,
slow among the mums who/ wrestle with push-chair kids,

“Are you interested in knowing when and whom you will marry? What the year will bring you? If you will gain in a law- suit?… What are you best adapted for? If you have enemies and who?

If you believe the novels
(and why shouldn’t you believe them?)
there are some passionate women who really let go and

Are women writing odes
to cocks that fuck them,
describing episodes

Maresfield Gardens, his last address.
The exiled Old Man talking less and less,
Too aware of his steel jaw’s clicking
And the fifty minute hours ticking