Stress Matters

“Good morning,” he told her
kissing her in the kitchen and
holding up a hand-scrawled page.

“Here’s my poem,” he said
flashing her the single sheet,
but his monotone confused her.

She couldn’t tell if he meant
“Here’s my poem,” as if he’d
lost it and found it again, or

if he meant, “Here’s my poem,”
as if he’d had a breakthrough and
and finally written something original

or if he meant “Here’s my poem,”
as if everything else he’d ever written
was only a versified literary warm-up.

“That’s wonderful,” she told him
smiling her genuine sunshine smile
in her polka-dot morning housecoat;

“You’re my hero,” she added
pouring him an oversized cup
and trying to be unequivocal.

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Poets And Storytellers United
Writers’ Pantry #32
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