Married To A Bar Maid

She works long hours.
She comes and goes at all hours.
Most times, when he is leaving for work in the morning, she staggers in, dead tired and high like some kite.
The perfunctory kiss and cajoled smile they exchange are enough for greetings as they pass each other at the door.

She is his wife.
And she works at the bar.
Selling alcohol to patrons.
Sometimes she comes home with bruises. Which she never explains about.
Sometimes she disappears on days end. Sometimes she uses foul language at home and before guests.

But she is his wife.
And he has learnt to live with the fact.
But many are the nights,
When he has lain awake,
Wondering and pondering,
The meaning of love.
Is love a wife selling drinks to inebriated males at 3 in the morning and listening to their lewd and risqué jokes?
Or love is lying in bed alone and cold waiting for a drunk wife to come home in the wee hours of night?

He is not sure.
He doesn’t know.
Maybe he does not want to.
But what he is sure is that,
It is not easy being married to a bar maid.
And his wife has refused to change her career to something more agreable.
And he knows time is nay to move on.
Not that he hasn’t tried to make things work out. No.
He has just reached the very end of it all.

Here she comes.
The wife.
The Bar Maid.
He groans aloud…


A Woman’s Anguish

This gold and cold ring,
That is hugging my little finger gladly, Harshly reminds me that you’re yet to ring me.
While I’m whiling away alone at home, You’re touring K Street with your G-Touring car,
With an intent to V-Tour the uncouth lasses.
Will you blame me,
If another with an Imprezza impresses me?
Will you Chastise me,
If I pay an imprest to another for his interest in

I’m a wife with a knife
Gorged deeply by you George,
In this hurting heart,
And life is slowly bleeding from me, And the hurt is lowly and slowly getting cold and
old. Loving’s certainly become a chore, Loving’s surely become a bore,
Love’s a call,
But George you’re not calling.
When I’ll knock down the L in love, When I’ll add the R at the very end of love,
Then it’ll be OVER!
Then you’ll know how a woman’s anguish tastes like…

Copyright Ayoub Mzee 2012


She counts time,
With her fingers,
Staring at a glaring time.
Time is gone.
She lives in an empty house,
Devoid of sweet memories.
Devoid of happy moments.
She exists in an empty heart,
Hurting more.
Love is gone,
Devotion is dead.
Misting into nothingness,
While age beckons,
With bitter promises.
Deadened desires litter her soul.
A child’s smile haunts,
A child’s cry hurts.
Reality is too real.
Love is treacherous.
As the sun sets down,
It sets down with her dreams.
It goes down with her hopes.
It fades away with her aspirations.
Another day is gone;
A constant reminder,
Of endless emptiness.
She gathers courage.
She musters strength.
She must.
The spinster.

© Copyright 2012 Ayoub Mzee