“Loosey”

I come home
at the end
and waiting for me
is the same stale piece of toast
I did not eat that same morning.
A stick of butter also;
Still on the counter,
SOFT—
and it all falls apart
in waxed wrapper
if I try to touch
it. So I don’t.
I walk to the bed,
take my socks off
and add them to
the pile
of stink.
This is what life looks like
when your wife
is not your maid.