Saturday, January 26, 2013

A Marriage in Iambic Pentameter

He vacuums when I won’t respond to words
that say no more than that he’s always right.
The martyr cleans to stack the odds against
my claims that nothing ever changes. Here
in rooms in need of cleaning arguments
are made, and Christmas disappears along
with dust that’s gathered on the shelf and left
an outline where the condoms used to be.
We will not speak until he’s done, and I
have offered my regrets for being wrong again.

No comments:

Post a Comment