Done And Dusted. Poem by Terry Collett

She knows that's it.
All done and dusted.
Her father used to say
that: done and dusted,

usually when he done
someone and dusted
off his fists. Dead now;
done an dusted himself.

But Claude, yes, that's
done now. He won't
want her back now he
knows. It was a bit risky

having that young guy
in my bed, but I was
feeling low, and he seemed
a good idea at the time.

Ideas do seem good at
the time. Time has away
of paying back ill done deeds,
she muses. He hasn't rung.

Hasn't said a thing. His way
of cutting her out, and leaving
her out in the cold. He made
love his goal, well at least

the bedding kind. Had to be
the best bed, the best sheets,
silky and smooth. That time
in the posh place in that big

four poster, and she and him
giving it some, and there was
a knock at the door, and he
bellowed out obscenities, and

the knocking stopped, it
was silent like just before a
bomb is dropped. That's it
now, she muses, no more

Claude, no more bedding in
posh places, no seeing posh
prats or their wives and their
over done and dusted up faces.