I should have known from the retching crow
that passed on my way to the station
that morning. The signs were there
in the sprinkle of chocolate
on my cappuccino,
in the graph of plunging share prices
hidden in the newspaper’s entrails.
She’s gone; I should have known.
The signs were there this evening
as I made my way home in the dark.
They were there in the shreds of lettuce
in my takeaway burger,
in the fine print on the back of my ticket
if only I had known where to look,
in the rush of our hungry cat.
She’s gone; she won’t be back.
Published in Obsessed With Pipework