My wife hates it when I leave my clothes around the house.
she hates it when I hold a sneeze for too long,
she thinks I do it on purpose; she may be right
because I believe i was a full time birthday party clown
in my past life.

My wife complains to me about
how I spend more effort than I should scratching an
itch on my thigh; she scrutinizes me when I dig
under my nails and pleads for me to just clip them.

When she's not home her voice still remains; it rocks
back and forth like a lifeboat without any
tools for salvation.

I could never love anyone else. perhaps I'm all
dried up; much like the plums we keep in the icebox.

Forgive me,
I don't mean to be so honest.

It's just that i don't have anyone else to talk to at the moment.