His wife is lying on the living room couch
and he is in bed,
where the dog is hairing the blanket and loves him.
The man crosses and uncrosses his legs.
Through the walls, he can hear clanking from the kitchen:
The woman is up, and perhaps, having a smoke
with the pots and pans and Brillo pads,
pressing herself to the refrigerator hum.
The gray dog moves to the cool crater next to him.
Years ago, his wife would smell his neck
and tug at his belt and smile.
Her husband is sleeping.
She keeps the TV a notch above mute.
Her eyes move to a photo on the mantel,
where her grandmother and grandfather
are looking slightly to the left and smiling.
Behind them, it is autumn.
The woman goes the the kitchen and stacks plates.
A place for everything and everything in it’s place, she thinks.
She wonders where the gray dog is.
She turns the dial on the stove but it only clicks at her.
She finds matches.
Crossing her legs, she leans against the counter;
Lights her dinner.
It is long and smooth and takes her breath away.
Created: Mar 16, 2011gilliangoodman Document Media