There is a monk on the sofa
Celibate, thoughtful and sad
Thinking of his past life
Before he became a dad
Plumping up a feather pillow
Setting a beeping clock
In some old worn boxershorts
A toe poking out of a sock
His love upstairs grinding her teeth
She does every single night
He resigned himself to eternal sofa(ing)
It is just not worth the fight
The mundane months skulk on by
Each mimics dull October
How life was different four years ago
When he / they had been less sober
The only grinding done back then
Was her pelvis against his
How proudly she embraced nakedness
Back when life had fizz
He removes his holey socks and prays
To an imaginary goddess
That his wife can learn to love again
With or without her dress
His prayer remains unanswered tonight
He understands that he must wait
For she must learn to love herself again
Before she can change their fate.