The Wicked Lady

Is it because I burned the potatoes? 
The lady’s hat from last night had feathers, 
usually that’s the best thing about a lady, 
we’re only supposed to have five things. 
She sang with wild horses in her stomach, 
galloping through ale barrels and cabbages, 
it never occurred to me she was hiding, 
she was not the one in the grubby apron. 
I want to cloak my skin in a stolen night, 
hunt bloated rubies in carriages on the moor, 
you are vexed I neglected the potatoes, 
let the fire crackle and smoke hum for hours, 
the dishes survived, the bed, the stale bread, 
precious mutton still fat on a fragile bone.