Revenge

See him cycling alongside her

on a lane gilded with that low sun

he knows you love, slicing through branches,

strobing on your favourite shades

in the warmth of the 4x4.

Consider slowing down enough

for him to read the number plate,

shoot off just as feet touch ground

and she asks what the Hell is going on.

Watch them shrink in the mirror, check your teeth

after the salad lunch heated with schemes:

spinach misbecomes the bitch.

Revel in the newfound power

of a plan that goes without a hitch.

Cry into napkins, plate untouched, plot unhatched.