For My Wife, on Valentine’s Day

The entryway’s cluttered.

Her kitchen’s a mess.

Her children are screaming,

Neither one dressed.

Her class has just finished.

She’s just arrived home,

and there sits her husband,

face glued to his phone.

“Hello, dear,” he calls her

without looking up.

The cat’s on the table

drinking milk from a cup.

Stray LEGOs are sprinkled

on every stair.

A half-eaten apple

lies on her best chair.

Her sheets reek of dog funk.

Her towel’s on the floor.

No one has bothered

to do any chores.

She slips on a tank top

and heads back to him.

“I love you,” she whispers,

“but don’t be so dim!

If you would just straighten,

attempt a light clean,

perhaps you’d get lucky

outside of your dreams.

Instead, you read Twitter

and other such schlock.

Forget about hot sex–

make love to your sock.

Now, vacate the sofa,

Put the children to bed.

Wash all the dishes.

You might not wind up dead.”

She turns on the TV

and dials up some peace.

Her long day has ended.

It’s time for release.


About semiblind

Bringing you stark existentialism since 1981.
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