I almost regret assigning the stanzas for your ring-tone,
seeing as it drops the stock of the song.
Your poolside figure kept me verbal, just trying to talk you up,
those summer hours the only evidence we were young.
Three years in the making, rusted truck in the lawn;
your bulges stupendous, shower-cap a daily frock.
Not really a mid-life crisis, just a crisis in mid-life.
Admittedly, you don't have what it takes
to keep me home.
So I go out to pour chug,
and seek out finer treasures.
Leaving you dormant on the inherited couch.
Your soap-opera rituals, burnt chicken in oven,
never forgiving myself for asking you out.
At least I make attempts to wash up,
to keep the fingernails trimmed.
You make attempts to complain about my paychecks earned.
I only labor for the freedom of not seeing you,
the slouching shoulder visible underneath three-day old pajamas.
Love is described as being blind,
I'd rather be blind so I could speak of our love.
I am embarrassed to claim you, truly not a great find;
your mouth filled with rot,
and tongue coated with assaults.
Yet somehow I return,
liquored from Jameson shooters,
to trace your skin with longing and hope.
Throwing up in the sink come morning,
like, "What have I done"?
Although your presence disgusts me,
I'll be back tonight for your love.
Bronze trophy winner
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