what love isn't

is that blood

on your shirt, she

asks, peering around

the corner

as i come

home from work,

and fall

into the big chair.

apparently

the days of the welcome

home kiss, are over.

i untie my boots, sliding

out of them.

just a cut,

i tell her.

i'm okay. i stare at

my hands.

they're still curled

from the tools

i used for nine hours.

my nails re black.

i take off my hat

and wipe

my brow.

i close my eyes and feel

the burn

of a long day.

i could fall asleep right

there in this chair

and not wake up

for days.

and then i hear her voice

in the kitchen,

are you going to wash up

before dinner?

or just sit there?

and you tracked mud

in by the way.

do you mind taking your

boots off on the porch

when you come home?