Feeling a trifle smug after breaking off an untidy,
Drawn-out affair with somebody I no longer fancied
I was strolling through Kensington Gardens
When who should I bump into but Gavin.
Gavin, I should point out, is the husband.
‘I’m worried about Lucy,’ he said, straight out.
‘I don’t blame you,’ I thought, but said nothing.
‘Suspect she’s having an affair. Any ideas?’
‘Divorce,’ I suggested. ‘You might even get custody.’
‘No, I mean Lucy,’ he persisted. ‘Who with?’
We walked on in silence, until casually, I asked:
‘An affair, you say, what makes you so convinced?’
He stopped and produced from an inside pocket
A sheet of paper which I recognized at once.
It was this poem. Handwritten, an early draft.
Then I saw the gun. ‘For God’s sake, Gavin,
It’s only a p…