Does the world need Another book? Another poem? I add one more to the pile To be left alone

Most women are cooks But a man who cooks Is a chef She cooks over and over To feed the masses

I look away Afraid to see Flicker of nerves In their eye A clench

I had it all In my head And then I said Words I do not know which ones

Strong hands Hold me down To the bed I say to them I have to go

The more you treat me like a nag The more I become one I’m sorry if I micromanage Your clean clothes Your hot meals

The human heart ...leaps and jumps ...races and sings ...sighs and groans The treacherous heart can

I spend all my time Fighting with you In my head If we fought At least it would be