She Says Let's Talk

She says let's talk, 

then clears the kitchen table

of unopened mail, coffee cups, 

newspapers, a vase of dead flowers. 

She pulls out a chair and sits. 

I prefer to stand, 

take my medicine that way,

hang in the door with a cigarette, 

and a good morning Bloody Mary. 

I know what's coming, 

yet still feel my pulse increase,

the pressure rise. 

Sweat grows beneath my arms. 

I suddenly see that the stove 

needs cleaning, 

pots have spilled over, 

the floor needs a wash, a wax. 

Strips of wallpaper

have come loose 

at the edges and need paste.

The ceiling needs a fresh 

coat of paint, yellowed and chipped

from nicotine, bacon grease and age.

I can see myself fixing 

all of this some Saturday,

not this one, but one real soon. 

She becomes polite when she's angry.

The nicest person I've ever met. 

Her words are even, quiet, 

full of firm resolution. 

She's measuring each word 

to tell me something 

of great importance, something 

that will affect the both of us 

for a very long time.

I wait my turn, sipping my drink. 

I have the patience of Job.

I see water from the kitchen spigot 

drip in great slow drops into

the chrome drain full of dishes.

I know if given the time, 

just half a chance, 

that I can fix that too.