by Matthew J. Robinson
Although we died the moment we met,
we believed we could shun nothingness
by getting married, act as a paradigm
for those just beyond giving up.
The ruse held for fourteen years:
We produced two children, took out two mortgages,
fought roughly twice a week. I accused you
of turning the knob of the door
we shut together. You took me to task
about my insatiable need to recalibrate our purpose.
Sleep occurred by mistake;
dreams were next-day dilemmas.
A neighbor left a note
that our yard needed rejuvenating.
You watered the lawn with gasoline while I
glued thorns to the hedges. We agreed,
it was nice to do something together again.
Published 21 January 2013