What is the exact minimum number of pebbles needed
to turn a pile into a beach?
This and other troubling riddles go unanswered
as I drown my husband in a rockpool,
gripping him by the nape of his duffel coat,
glancing round for tourists.
I sing hits from Now 29 to muffle the splashing -
'Parklife', 'Sure' by Take That - and I am sure
that no court in the land would convict me
for ending this wretched bastard,
with his asthma and his questions,
his shaving foam, his coffee rings,
his long, unbroken stares,
his love.
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