The challenge of catching up

On the
JETTY they’re selling tubs of
PESTO, deep in its green as a
PRUNE is deep in red and brown, or a
TAWNY lion yellow in its yellowness.  

The
BOOTH announces, ‘Former Welterweight
CHAMP.’ His wife, a few feet away, in heels that
CLACK across the weatherworn boards,
PIVOTs as I say, ‘Done with the boxing then?’

A
BRIEF glance, under heaviest eyebrows. A
LEASH, self-imposed, holds back comments. His
BASAL mode’s controlled; he keeps himself from
SMEARs against his former occupation.

But
BLUNT is his wife’s middle name. No
SHADY subtleties of speech here. She
STOKEs the constant fires of anger: one
VOWEL is enough to tell me her temper.

The
ALLOY of ferocious mixed with self-restraint, I guess, gives
FIBRE to their marriage, keeps them sane. He’s
FORTY, at a guess, but her age I can’t gauge. The
PAINT of makeup could hide anything from twenty-five to fifty.