to pick
with you, she says, coming
home from work,
throwing down
her briefcase.
you parked your car
in the parking
spot in front of the house.
my spot.
we agreed that that would
be my spot
after we got married.
i'm at the kitchen
table
tearing into a rotisserie chicken,
holding a greasy bone
in my hand.
it's ironic, i tell her,
you have a bone
to pick with me
and i'm holding a bone in
my hand right now
when you say that.
she's not in a humorous
mood though.
no surprise there.
i almost call her Blanche,
but don't.
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