‘I’m off to Lesbos with the girls.’
‘Yes, boss, shall I warm your pearls?’
We josh, as she goes upstairs to pack.
Not so much a holiday as the chance to get away
from those humdrum domestic chores.
And to be honest, to get away from me.
I’m half-joking of course, but my Sappho
has a mind of her own and can be, let’s face it,
difficult. I put it down to artistic temperament,
though others base it on the company she keeps.
Those women who hang wearily about the house
lounging on couches pretending to be men.
Charades they call it. Sappho only joins in
to be polite, but they take advantage, encourage her
to ridicule me, to impersonate the way I walk.
I’m fat. So what, and if my voice is high pitched
there’s no need for mimicry. But she means
no harm, on the contrary it’s a form of flattery.
Call me old-fashioned, but I believe a wife
should have an interest outside the home.
Poetry is hers, and hopefully on the island
she’ll compose some nice odes. About what
I’ve no idea. Ah, but here she is, lyre in hand,
wide-eyed and trembling with excitement.
Nervous I suppose, at the thought of the journey,
and at the prospect of not seeing her beloved
for weeks. Enough to make a grown man cry.
‘Farewell my darling, remember to keep out of the sun,
and may the muses be ever at your …’
‘Thanks, Mr Sappho. Goodbye.’