Fifty-two percent by Paul Vaughan

Fifty-two percent of my mates

believe I shagged my wife’s sister.


So does my wife.


Some bloke down the pub told her,

said I’d abused her Doreen’s self-determination,

imposed unwanted regulation;

it was even in the papers.


She packed her bags up,

stood in the kitchen,

arms folded, lips hateful,

ears beyond truth;

told me she was leaving,

wanted back control,

loosed from my manipulation.


Said she’d do better on her own.

Told me to shut up,

sick of me not swallowing

self-evident truth;

fifty-two percent cannot be wrong.


But they are,

and I won’t stop shouting it.


Paul Vaughan is a custard-hating poet from Yorkshire. He has work forthcoming in Seventh Quarry, Sarasvati, Eunoia Review and The Curly Mind. He also edits the poetry ezine