I am in a marriage that is nothing
like childhood fights about maple syrups.
Mother said the kids like the pineapple, strawberry,
and butterscotch. Father said they don’t need ‘em.
Resentment filled the breakfast table along
side the crepes and chunk fruit, coffee and sugar,
uncorrected essays and yawns, hammer
and car keys. The marriage I’m in is not
an early childhood of packing items,
father standing with gun. Those were not marriages
My marriage is a hardwood floor bowed from
the hodgepodge of a king size bed and a
blanket, a rattling round table with two
chipped cups, a spent teapot of green and a
silent slice of lemon. Not a hungry
thing under the bed. In my marriage I
pretend I am rich, and put butter on everything.