Thursday, February 22, 2018

I’m sorry I’m such a difficult husband,
that I’m gross and lard-caked, that I smell
so often of ketchup. I love ketchup.
And I’m sorry that I leave things places,
that I never finish eating things, and
that they sometimes hang from my mouth.
Honestly it’s partly because I’m gross.

But it’s also partly because I live
in an environment of greasy spoons,
ramshackle tire shops, half-burned-down
clock repair places, wounded indigents
wandering and speaking gruffly to their
would-be children. Speaking woodenly.
Coarsely. Or I guess you’d say grouchily.

• • •

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