poetry for my husband
Poetry for my husband:
July 5, 2013
His shirt isn’t always white, and that’s my fault.
I tell him, ‘oh baby it’s probably the washmachine’s fault.’
He looks at me, with his beautiful hazel green eyes,
and I want to kiss him,
‘oh honey, I tell him again and again, do you think maybe I managed to put the clothes mixed in with the colours?’
His disapproving gaze just tears me up,
because he hardly gets angry and when he does,
It’s not a pretty sight, but he’s always kind,
Too generous for his own good,
Foots the bill for everyone,
And he looks at me, because I don’t always approve,
But reminds me, with a hug that I wouldn’t have fallen for a cheap man,
But I still, to this day, get his white shirts coloured,
And this time, maybe it is the washmachine’s fault.
He wants a garden without the grass,
I cry, because I want the grass, but he buys the plants, the flowers, and trees,
says honey you're gonna love it.
I sometimes, to my disconcertment, burn his food, but thankfully that doesn’t happen anymore
Well at least not the pasta, but that rice, oh that rice, I forget the time,
what's with me and whites?
But he still eats another helping
Says he’s growing that terrible middle fat that middled aged men get,
And he’s not even middle aged yet,
Look at Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise and the others,
middle aged, but looks like a teen dream,
But we can’t compare them can we?
Oh honey, you drive me crazy, with your nit picky ways,
And lack of tool guy repairman ways, but you’re brilliant, more brilliant than my little pinky could hold,
And one day, I’ll get all his whites, including his socks just the right colour.
Love your wife