Year After Year

 

Of course you may go out but you must know

when I alone lay down our son, full of formula and promise

I instinctively envision single-parenthood while I sing him

“Wish You Were Here” for the hundredth night.

 

When I was seventeen I envisioned that anthem

sound-tracking my painless, accidental death

featuring my cuckolding crush weeping over my body,

as Pink Floyd synced the monitor, and up the camera went.

 

I am thirty-one and you are thirty-one. In the nursery,

our son maws gibberish in the dark. The female cat

who you correctly identify as my cat, whinges.

Oh wife, come home to me, and spoon my nervous hinges.

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