Confession of a Househusband


I suppose because I’ve broken out

The finery – the candles, scented;

Bottled romance, glasses brimmed

As I, with expectation – that

You think I’m up to something. Something’s

Up. The crockery; a slice of torte,

Its corner pointing descriptively

To you, is such a telltale sign

That you can even taste it. Wine,

Sweet wine, and scents of music kiss

The air… how, quaint? I waited for your time,

To kick off shoes and grumble how

The whole deal went. And here I am,

Bringing out whatever I’ve been roasting,

Carving it up. You’re half expecting

Bunnies boiled like coq au vin, my dear!

You see the way I welcome you:

You dread to think what’s in the stew.

I’m aligning plates – you note the cutlery,

You clocked the knife – a rose delights

In a handsome empty bottle. I suppose,

I say, as I caress the plate’s white rim

And bite my lip, taste wine-blood doing so:

You’ve thought this day would come, have seen

Sweet threats before – but honey bear,

You married one. You married tension:

And dear, although we both adore Glen Close,

I’m simply happy that you’re home. I know

It’s cruel to loom, to seem so sinister:

But tell me that the warmth of bubbles, so

Luxuriant in our bath, won’t ease a smile.

The joke is, you’re entirely adored.

So yes, I’ve spun a home to ambush you:

The truth is, I have set a place for two.



Somewhere between delightful househusbandry and neurotic, bunny-boiling spitefulness lies marital bliss. 


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