It was time to celebrate

I cooked a special meal

Of excellent Greek moussaka

Made with The Boy’s favourite veal

I even made it the day before

The Boy then changed his mind

He went visiting friends in Bondi

And preferred to remain behind

My husband had been a bachelor boy

And a Romeo for twenty joyous years

He sometimes has a selfish streak

And never observes my tears

He changes his mind to suit himself.

After several false pledges,

I’m running out of sandpaper

To smooth out his rough edges.

Saturday night I was on my own

But I knew the meal would last

Into the fridge until tomorrow,

It won’t hurt for me to fast

Sunday came, I went to town.

Some students received an award

They topped the State in piano

Made it on their own accord

Their parents came along, filled with pride

And The Boy arrived on time

To share the presentation

Of instruments, rhythm and rhyme

The Boy looked smart today

He wore a respectable suit

Dapper, he was, despite the heat

And dripping with charm, to boot

The Concert closed with applause

And the proud parents declared

“You should be celebrating, Barb,

Have you something prepared?”

“I do, ” said I, “a fine meal awaits

And some of Teacher’s favourite wine.”

I gazed into The Boy’s eyes,

Thinking he looked divine.

“I must return to Bondi,

There’s something I’ve left behind.

I’ll see you later on at home

I’m sure that you won’t mind.”

The Boy was gone in a flash

Gordon surely was his middle name

I journeyed on back up the Coast,

Inner senses didn’t feel the same.

My phone rang that metallic ding

An SMS came through

‘Struth, it’s from the Boy himself

How would he know what to do?

“Eating dinner with the mates

Already on the go

Do what you want for your evening meal

Be home in an hour or so…..”

I was both seething and fuming

I looked at my work of art.

The best moussaka around, for sure

And he didn’t have the heart

Dare to call me and repent

Texting is the work of a Cad

The Boy couldn’t face my voice,

He would fear that I would be mad.

Rebellion is my forte

What does he love the most?

A bottle of Penfolds Grange lies near

A gift from a friend, he would boast

No less than five hundred dollars

This wine of quality is worth.

I know about its superb style,

Such finesse befits my mirth.

I lick drips from my fingertips

The carafe sucks and splashes down

Majestic black fruits of the Grange,

It’s the most expensive toast in town.

The Boy’s pride and joy of wine

Is this “famous” bottle of Red.

Australia’s finest and flawless

Is about to be ‘drink-ed.’

I close my eyes and sip slowly

Taking care to hold in the juice

I admire the power and the weight,

It’s complexity as I sluice

Around my mouth and through my teeth

Swirls the jewel in Australia’s crown

Tantalising tannins support

My back-palate as I swallow down

Three glasses later, and I hope

The Boy won’t be home for a while

The Greek cuisine has been frozen.

I take my revenge with a smile.

The Boy has blessed this bottle.

Medical Doctors such as he

Declare a scientific interest

In the making of wine, it must be.

Dr Penfold, himself, was a

Great believer in red wine

For the healing powers only

Of the fruits of the vine

Four hours had passed by

There was no sign of His Nibs

It was time for me to retire

And I called the cat, “Mr Tibs!”

One last task for the night was to

 Save the dregs in the carafe

With plastic wrap for the seal

I retired with a careless laugh.

As The Boy breakfasted the next day,

I displayed the wreck of my wrong done

My retaliation was accepted

in stone silence – I had won!

“You can drink the rest tonight

I have a work meeting, ” he chides.

“International Women’s Day

Pour moi and dinner besides.”

“I’ve been married for thirty years,

I would never dare do that!”

Friends say, “You’re a braver woman than I

And I take off my hat!”

That evening at dinner for World Women’s Rights

The Boy calls me on the phone

“Meeting finished early, Barbie-doll

So I’m zooming home!!”

“I forgot you were out, Barbie-doll

We didn’t even get fed.”

“There’s nothing at home either.”

Poetic justice isn’t dead.

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