On the bus my wife
speaks to me loudly
and clearly so all can hear
what she wishes to say.

On meals out she reaches
into her bag for wet wipes
so I can remove foodstains
from my shirt or trousers
and tells all who are present
“I don’t carry these
for the grandchildren.

You’re worse than the grandkids.”

When I have Man Flu she says:
I think you should stay here, dear.
Don’t want you coughing
up phlegm in the restaurant.
It’ll put the other diners off.
We’ll be thrown out.

You don’t want to look common,
when you draw attention to yourself.

I hope that’s not a poem about me.
You’re not drawing attention to me.
You weren’t sordid when we married.