Husband & Wife/dishes

Elbow deep in suds and scrubbing,
Behind me I feel someone rubbing.
Suddenly two hands on breasts.
Really, I think, is there no rest?

“Do you want to make love?” I hear him ask.
Wipe my forehead, distracted from the task
Of washing dishes, steam in my eyes,
I respond, an exhausted reply:

Do I want to “make love”?


I make love.
I wake love.

I bake special muffins so my love will eat love.
I pack love into lunches with little notes.
I fill tubs with love and little boats.
I love during pick up after pre-K:
“I love your purse, your hair that way!”

I spot-treat love’s little uniforms
And shirts love has stained but barely worn.
I love my way through the grocery store,
Fill up the cart and conjure MORE
Love to whip up dinner–
You’d think all this loving would make me thinner!

I love all the drawings (of who knows what).
I love to extremes when I wipe love’s butt
And rinse skid marks from “Cars” undershorts;
I’d be an Olympian if love were a sport.
By sunset my love has worn quite thin
’til love’s in PJs, & the smell of him
Refills my store
Can’t help but adore.

Then, after bedtime, love comes home,
Not with flowers or Byron poem,
But complaints of work and crippling fatigue.
“It’s time to draft my fantasy league.”
So I play the role of athletic supporter,
Handing off dinner and beer in short order.
Kissing love on top of his head,
I consider my options: food or bed.
But endless love fills one with hunger
And dishes must be done pre-slumber.
Soon in comes love, spewing sports stats,
All hands, wondering where I’ve been at,
Wanting to get cozy, and me half crazy,
My love source tapped, my brain all hazy,
Dreading love’s school field trip,
Which I hate and would rather skip.
But one thing I don’t love is being alone,
So I volunteered to chaperone!

And love walks in seeking love & luck?
I don’t want to make love.

Why don’t we just FUCK?

*Important note re: The Husband: he feels that you, Reader, should know that he does not use the term “make love” or any of its conjugations (e.g. “we make love”, “we are making love”, “we hath made love”) in precoital communication. This does not include “Making Love Out of Nothing at All“, because the man does love to jam out to Air Supply. *A confession from The Writer/Wife: The Husband usually makes dinner. I am the sous chef. (And not a very good one.)