The Division of Labor

In the quiet parts of the morning,
whenever it first occurs,
and when the sleep has left
and the muscles begun to lubricate,
my unmarried wife will settle herself,
as though patting down her apron,
close her checking of Facebook
and the New York Times, the Weather Channel,
put boiled water on organic green tea leaves,
and then announce she is going upstairs again
to meditate, in a firm keep-away voice
similar to the one dog owners use to say ‘sit’.
Alone, I empty the dishwasher
and think of peeling countless potatoes.

 

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