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
decorations.
Or a plug that has
never been
unplugged.
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
bare
feet.
I dont know what
she said
or if he heard
but I bet
he doesnt
need her
as much
as I do.