Preserve the Lies

by Ben John Smith

Bach composes violoncello minute
and at thirty-eight seconds
she walks into my room
and cringes at the sight of me
pouring wine into a pint glass.

And her eyes break
like Christmas tree

Or a plug that has
never been

She says,
“What in GOD'S name are
you doing?”

And with an ugly truth
I lower my head
like a child with dirty palms
and say,

“I'm pretending to be famous.”

She whispers to God.
The cat brushes past her

I don’t know what
she said

or if he heard

but I bet
he doesn’t
need her
as much
as I do.