It's National Poetry Month. Here's a bit I've been working on, untitled currently.

Got up this morning on an altered clock

and dragged myself to the grocery store.

Meal prepped two different lunches as if I won't get bored midweek anyway.

Spring cleaned half of the house,

walked Haskell to the park and back,

bathed him since he's a dog doing dog things that get him dog dirty.

Then I bathed myself of the dog dirty

and wondered if your bed was empty

or filled with tattooed arms and fuzzy legs and undetectable numbers.

What did flying my bestie with you to Ibiza cost?

You wouldn't even drive my sorry ass to Maryland for Queerly Beloved day at Ren Faire.

I got that I wasn't enough

in holes or inches,

and I got your non-appreciation for the Darkwave Batcave

and my need to hoard forsaken hermit crabs after Labor Day.

But I didn't get hearing Tilyr was just a bud ad nauseum

while his goldilocks draped your pillow every other day,

especially after all the overtime you put in

for me to let you be "poly."

Christ... polyester, polystyrene, Pollyanna, whatever!

Crawled on the floor

and spooned our sleeping son

and fell asleep knowing

he loves me

and wants nothing in return

except Walkies.

And Greenies.

And a tummy rub after your weekend

of feeding him kafteri.