Wednesday, July 6, 2011

marriage poem #2

Sometimes I am a dick to you without meaning to
those times you sit on the corduroy couch,
your eyes red-hued,
your sotto voce a quiet shout.
Then the balloon of my stubborn dickishness
filling the room with a sad silence,
so quiet the corduroy doesn't even ripple.
You ripple
down your face,
making a maze on your cheeks
clean from the shower.
I was a dick about it, I finally say.
I'm sorry, I say.
Me too, you say.
The whole sofa
applauds with delight.

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