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.