Thursday, August 30, 2007


I come and do the usual.

I pay the bills,
although first I
must search for them
where you have squirreled them away
like acorns
against a cold winter.

I do the dishes
although this merely involves
loading and unloading the dishwasher.

I do the laundry,
trying to push away
feelings of guilt
because I know
my standards
and abilities
are way below
what yours were.

I open the fridge
to throw away old milk
and decide that it must be cleaned--
a chore I don't do nearly often enough
at home.

I make you sandwiches
from the meat and
various shaped breads
that comes from
the ladies
from Meals on Wheels.

I explain that the check
in your purse
that you guard so jealously
is one from a year ago
and has already been deposited
and returned
by the bank.

I try
to keep you

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Poems © Gemma W. Wilson