unhygienic restroom practices

Grabbing my wrist-

so narrow, your nephew could wrap his hand around

(and he did, last night, at the cinema hesitant

to remove

his gloves for fear of impropriety and

frostbite)-

was a classic unnecessary gesture.

Calloused and cracked and

crying for a covering of lotion,

which I have and you could have

borrowed,

shackles

made of snow topped

with bloodied cuticles

that I did not bloody

touch.

I fear you do 

not wash your hands upon exiting the restroom,

otherwise my gloved palm

would be in yours,

despite being quite adept at 

crossing the street without assistance (I

have been for quite 

some time) from you.

But, that is disgusting and now

my wrist-

so gently held this evenings' past-

needs at the very least some

Purel, 

which I have and you could have

borrowed. 

I would let you, after your hands were cleansed

of course.

suburban utopia

Your car keys tumble out of your hand and hit the frozen ground. "Shit," you say, "this is a perfect morning," as the eggs slip out of the Whole Foods bag to meet the keys. As you stand there, yolk splattered, I laugh. The suede on my rather expensive boots is, now, also marred by your clumsiness. You glare, pleading for help, as I get in my car and begin negotiating my way to the parking lot's exit. "Shit," I say, "this is a perfect morning."

(cross-posted on www.sixsentences.ning.com)

untitled

right now you are snoring.

ordinarily this would be endearing,

but i am exhausted

after chasing the children all day.

i did 

not choose to carry 

your genes into the next generation.

as much as i love you,

there should not be more

of you.

please, purchase those strips that lay across

your nose

and open your sinuses.

i am exhausted.

i love you.

but i need to sleep.