“Loosey”

I come home
at the end
and waiting for me
is the same stale piece of toast
I did not eat that same morning.
A stick of butter also;
Still on the counter,
SOFT—
and it all falls apart
in waxed wrapper
if I try to touch
it. So I don’t.
I walk to the bed,
take my socks off
and add them to
the pile
of stink.
This is what life looks like
when your wife
is not your maid.

narrative poem written on 11-10-2010 by: on mattkane.com
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