Domestic Bliss

A dialogue poem I wrote in junior year of college. Warning: Language

Domestic Bliss

A husband and wife sit at the dinner table,

bitterly eating.

She glares at him glaring back at her.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Your face.”

She sneers at him.

He pours himself some white wine in his glass.

“See? There is it is, ladies and gentleman.

The face that says, ‘Why the hell did I marry this loser?’

It never fails.”

“Whatever.”

He tries to saw through the heavily blackened veal

on his plate.

Sweat beads invade his forehead.

“Damn woman! How long did you cook this thing?

This meat is burnt.

Where did you cook this, a wildfire?”

She snorts at him.

“Well, excuse me.

I don’t get time to cook a

proper meal because I have to work two jobs a week

because somebody I know got laid off because

they were too busy screwing

their fuckin’ co-workers instead

of watching the company’s assets.”

“Well if somebody put out more…”

She gives him a Satanic glare.

“Pervert.”

“Oh-ho! You’re one to talk!”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?!”

He gives up on trying to cut his veal.

“You know what I mean!

I’ve seen you drooling over your

best friend’s eighteen-year-old son.”

She stabs her cheesy marinara-bathed shells with her silver fork.

“That’s none of your business!”

He munches on his boiled cabbage as if he is

going to barf it back up.

“Excuse me?”

She sips her white wine before talking.

“You heard me.”

He doesn’t comment.

They eat on with dinner.

She tries to eat her veal.

He catches her looking at him.

“What?”

She forces herself to swallow the burnt, sneering meat.

“Oh look at you, acting like King of Shit Mountain.”

He finishes up the cabbage on his plate.

“Ha! Shit Mountain!

That’s exactly what this place is!

It’s always the same crap day after day!

We go in this stupid-ass circle.

You hate this neighborhood,

I hate this neighborhood.

You hate your jobs.

This economy is shit.

You are careless with cooking.

And the worst part,

you give me that same sick look

every single day.

I look at you staring at

your best friend’s son mowing the lawn

across the street, like you’re hoping,

‘Oh maybe one day, he’ll look at me.’

He’s never going to get with—”

She slams down her knife.

“Are you done?

Who gave you the right to talk shit?

What are you some saint nailed to that

Ugly, ratty couch like an altar

Being sacrificed like a peace lamb

Because I’m a loser?

And what about you?

You’re married to me.

So that makes you the husband of a loser!”

He is pissed now!

He shoves his plate to the floor and storms away from the table.

“I don’t have time for this bull shit!”

She sits at the table alone.

“Fuck you!”