Monday, February 14, 2011

Shirt

I think he has the fantasy. That I am home for years. And, the food is always hot, and the beds made and the laundry just so.

But it is him who speaks it aloud. The work I have done, the thoughts, angst, toil, degrees to be me. That it must stand for something, what I have done to become. I would never say so. Not because I am not self-centred enough -- trust me I am plenty self-centred -- #bloginpoint... I don't say so because I am not articulate. I gum it up with blather. Blatherosaur.

But he says it. Cool and smooth. Clear, creaseless and unequivocal. Like the shirt in the closet he irons himself. Better than me.

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2 Comments:

Blogger Bon said...

i loved this. i was late finding the tag. but it is perfect.

i do not think Dave has that fantasy of me. i think i do. and yet i know it as a fantasy, some version of self conscripted but never understood, a reflection i think is supposed to call my name.

8:24 AM  
Blogger L. said...

I think I have the fantasy, too, that the food is always hot, and the beds made and the laundry just so.

I need a wife.

5:57 AM  

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