the night Ellen and her wife decide to come home

to be a fly

on the wall, when Ellen, yes that Ellen,

is lying in bed

with her husband/wife,

and they

are having the talk,

trying to decide if they

should give

up on this idyllic farm

in England

idea,

and go back home.

out the farmhouse window,

in the cold unrelenting rain,

cows are mooing,

sheep

going bah,

donkeys making their

peculiar neigh,

and roosters crowing.

their hands

are dirty with shoveling

manure

and feeding

the pigs.

all of their nails are broken,

and

they haven't been to a hair

salon in months.

together, lying side by side

in their feather bed,

they pick

the ticks off of each other,

and smooth calamine lotion

onto their patches

of poison ivy.

so, Ellen says,

in her perky manner of speaking,

what do you think? should

we slink back to the states,

should we

quietly buy a mansion somewhere

in California,

maybe Malibu,

somewhere with

running water and a bathtub?

i'm just tossing out the idea,

that's all, i mean

we've only been here a year, we

haven't even

had our first crop of kale

and spinach come up.

but i know you love it here, so....

the wife

jumps up and pulls her

packed suitcases

out from under the bed.

let's go, she yells.

i've been waiting ten months

for you to say that.

get your stuff, i'll start the car.