lives in a bird house with a faded blue roof,
lies down to sleep each night in an unmade bed,
and refuses to kiss me until he's brushed his teeth.
domestic bliss is a bowl of ripe strawberries and diced peaches,
a pile of recyclable garbage that's threatening to topple over,
and the buzz the dryer makes when it thinks the clothes are dry.
the clothes are never dry when the dryer thinks they are.
the garbage never falls over, no matter how many cans you stack up.
the strawberries are good on their own and so are the peaches.
his breath never smells that bad in the morning.
the bed really never does get made, but neither of us really minds.
he doesn't live in the birdhouse, but i'm sure something does
even in winter.
title and inspiration by none other than the usual. thank you arch!