What He Thought His Wife Thought of Him
He was the cook,
the man who knew how to wield
a slotted spoon.
He was the griller,
the everything but baker.
He was quick to flip someone off on the road,
quick to forgive,
but not forget.
He was the paranoid,
obsessed with how his wife perceived him,
who never asked himself
why she perceived him that way.
He was the man with the memory,
who catalogued every wrong thing
she had ever said,
and every time she had forgotten to remember him.
He was the man who wanted his woman pure,
but who made love like fifty shades of immorality.
He was the black sheep,
the stray sheep
who did not stray.
He was the man who had disappointed her
with the gambling,
the nicotine that surely damaged his contribution
when it came to creating another little one.
He was not a reader,
but a roughhouser.
He was a depressed man,
locked in his own mind,
but always trying to break into hers.
He had never broken her heart,
but her trust.
He was the man who put her before their child,
even as, at times, put their child before him,
for she had been taught that that was what mothers do–
just as she would ask him to love her enough
to save their child
before saving her.