Your spouse brings home your anniversary dinner in a take-out container
and you are just happy that you don’t have to cook
and even happier that you don’t have to clean up.
You gaze across the table at your partner
over your child’s head
who is sitting in your lap and audibly passing gas
and it doesn’t even ruin your appetite.
In a curious juxtaposition, the flowers that he brought home
are sitting on the table
amid a pile of socks and underwear
waiting to be folded, since yesterday.
You’re aware that you’ve used the word juxtaposition.
It’s 6pm and you are wearing flannel pajama bottoms
and a shirt with macaroni stuck to it.
You are happy that you didn’t have to get cleaned up to go out
because it’s too much work
For a Tuesday night.
To reward him for putting up with you for eight years
you give him a package of M&Ms
which you will eat tomorrow after he leaves for work.
He gives you a gift certificate for an expensive spa package.
You promise yourself you will give him his “real” present tonight,
the one he really wants,
after the kid goes to sleep.
But you are both too tired.
So you drift off to sleep
in his arms
thanking God for a good man,
a patient man,
a sweet life.