The microwave feast cometh,
after work and before bed.
He's a little turned on—
but sex night is tomorrow
provided she's up to it.
She's looking pretty good
even as she cracks her back
while doing neck rotations.

He remembers Donna Reed.
The one on TV in an apron,
who did such lovely things.
Thought by now their rent
might be a home mortgage,
and the little pitter-patter
would be of children's feet
and not those leaky pipes.

She'd like to hum a tune,
but her throat is too sore.
Her sick leave is used up,
so she's worked with a fever
—the entire week so far—
and knows he'll be disapponted
for the third time this month.
How she still loves him so.

She remembers those movies,
where it's always Summer gold
and the wife can bake all day
while her husband finds success.
How she chaffed when he asked
why she wanted to work.
Now she wishes she didn't—
both wishing for so many changes.

If he could turn back time,
he'd have learned to program.
Those computer things out there
have caught on (so he's heard).
If she could go back in time,
she'd have finished her degree.
Maybe if both'd listened to reality
and not to their adoring hearts.

Marriage seemed so wonderful.
Love and happiness and flowers,
with wine in rose-tinted glasses.
The king and queen in splendor
over a glorious court of plenty—
in a beautiful, prosperous land.
Where questions were of Camelot,
and not simply of survival...

03/26/2002

Posted on 03/26/2002
Copyright © 2024 D. Xavier Bari