Her hair’s starting to unravel;

mascara sprinkles her cheek


He’s busy chewing

the wings of the grilled pheasant

she marinated all day


When he stares silently beyond

her smoth bare shoulders

at the art poster on the wall

he leans back to wonder

at what she can only guess:

the score of the football game

on the muted television screen

he so avidly discussed over soup?


She watches him through candle glow,

the reflection of flames in her wine glass,

smiles lightly to herself of the lovely afternoon

she had cooking, dancing cheerfully

with lusty fantasies before the stove,

already beginning to see there’s no beauty in it

when you work too hard for love