married life

while you wear an apron (i imagine it to be frilly,
and pink, though you are not really effeminate, not
really) and make us vegan food i sit on the couch
with a beer and watch the football game. the remote
is wedged somewhere between the couch cushions
and i am too tired to get it. these long days at
the factory take their toll, and i wonder if you
are quietly becoming a desperate househusband,
thinking about putting razorblades in the apples
for halloween, thinking about how to get out of
having sex with me later this evening (though i
will probably be too tired anyway). while you
are sleeping i sneak over to the neighbor’s house
for a handjob and a hamburger. i smoke a furtive
cigarette under the awning and then spray myself
with that sandalwood hippie shit you gave me for
christmas (you called it a “commercial holiday”
but i insisted on exchanging anyway–i gave you
a box of chocolate with ‘moo’ written on it),
and go back into the house, upstairs, where your
thin body is covered with a blanket, and i sit
next to you and in that moment i want to just lay
my hand lightly in yours–but i don’t. i go back
downstairs and crack open a can, slouch in front
of the tv. and when the home team wins, it still
doesn’t feel like it.


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