The extermination of Mrs Robin D

I hate your horrible wife
with her low voice
and her limp hair
and her put-upon air
and her supercilious cat.
I loathe your enchanting children
with their grave eyes
and trusting fingers
and their educational toys
from Habitat
and their precocious interest in
nineteenth-century pumping engines.
Spoilt brats!
Shit, I can see you all
at breakfast,
poring over the Guardian,
with your Montessori-trained toddler
bashing his chair
and that she-wolf ruffling your hair,
and earnest letters from Save Our Seas
and Cancer Care.

Look here, Mrs D,
I'm asking you,
why is your guy so filament-thin?
If you loved him, like I do,
you'd put cream on his porridge
and feed him iron jelloids.
And, while you're about it,
can't you ration his smoking ?
His poor poisoned lungs
are choking,
and I cherish them.
Hell, it makes me sick,
your whole smug, exclusive,
complacent, united family,
playing Scrabble on Sundays,
and hating Amin
and never raising your voices,
and sending small but selfless
donations to Shelter,
and eking the meat
and endlessly knitting him jerseys.

So, Mrs D, I've decided you're dead.
I'm sorry to do it, but you take up
too much room in his bed
and he needs a less innocuous wife
to fix him jump-leads,
put passion in his life,
douse beige with rapturous red.

It was a sweetly sudden end,
with his soft tears falling on
the egg-and-cucumber sandwiches
and the (bought) Madeira cake,
and all your awful
almost-middle-class friends
agreeing it was a lovely wake.

I gave him time to recover.
The children grew older
and stopped sitting on his knee-
one up to me-
and, with a sort of gentle savagery,
I tried to inveigle myself
into his bed.
Funny really,
you were cold and he available,
but when I reached across
and touched reality,
you were breathing still,
and he was dead. 

and he was dead.