Sonnet to a duvet.

Sonnet to a Duvet.


When my wife sleeps on her side the duvet wraps itself
snuggly along her contours, soft valleys and dale, there
is something unseemly the way it caresses her body, one
wonders? Yes, it is an old duvet it was in her bed before
me and when I mention we ought to buy a new one, she
refuses; in the night I’m cold as the duvet will not cover
me, and I have to get up and get a blanket. It waits for me
to disappear, as her first husband so it doesn’t have to share
her with me and times suffer the agony to be made love
upon and see my smug smile of triumph, but it is dead
wrong I will take it to a drycleaner and lose the ticket and
pretend I have forgotten where the shop is. My wife will,
when used to a new expensive duvet, eiderdown, see who
habituated she has been and not mention her old lover again