I dream about my house of antique stuff,
my sagging sofa, bookshelves caving in;
then you pull up your caravan of love,
with furniture in mountains, moving in.
You don’t arrange or paint my living room;
at first, you don’t stir up a lot of dust.
You keep your snake collection safely tombed
and your bushy hair precisely brushed.
And I endure the Mozart tapes you play
all day and night without a moment’s halt.
And you consume the burnt meatballs I make
and do not spit and say it is my fault.
You are a king of men–unlike my ex–
And let’s not even talk about the sex.
Copyright © Eileen Murphy 2017
A former Chicagolander, Eileen Murphy now lives 30 miles from Tampa with her husband, three dogs, and one cat. She teaches literature and English at Polk State College in Lakeland.