He gets out of bed, grunting
Obnoxiously with his fifty-five
Fat accumulating, meaningless years,
Turns on the light and
Shuffles loudly, into the bathroom
The door of course, vulgarly ajar.
She tries to sleep off
That growing irritation, two decades
In the making, and shifts
Restlessly. The pillow falls
Not lightly, as with lovers
But heavy, too tired
To do anything else. He only turns
For a second, another annoyed glare
And she sighs helplessly.
She hates him now, how he
Barely lives in his too-tight
Black suits and bright ties, always
Mumbling about money,
About things he says she won't understand.
But she is now too spent
For anger at him, and exhausted experience
Tells her to just go back to sleep.
She'll know when he's gone,
Because, barely bending, he'll plant
An obligated mouthful of toothpaste
Spit on her still rosy cheek,
That she's kept carefully young,
Just in case.
And when he trudges down the stairs,
To that outside she has left
Long ago, she can do some living.
Even if it's just in dreams
The sleeping pills induce.