I am piling shredded
Christmas paper on the curb
when my cell rings.

We are no longer lovers;
and yet you call - as always.
predictable as January snows
whispering of ennui
and Boxing week sales.

Your voice enticing me to come.

'It'll be fun', broken words
garbled promise over
hands-free bluetooth
when your car glides to my curb
silent electric full stop.

Who am I to argue with
faux leather heated seats
and your presumption that I
would acquiesce – as always.

You take me to 'The Bay'
seeking new linens.
Leave me lingering 
between terrycloth towels
and flannel sheets.

Make me watch as you 
fondle, finger, and caress
Egyptian cotton in floral patterns
summoning memories of fertile fields
wrapped in summer heat.

My arms burdened beneath
fresh virgin bedroom sheets,
you take me to the check-out counter
-	'All Sales Final.'

Then whisk me back to my curb
just as the garbage truck rumbles slowly past

As always.