My wife asked me this morning
if I’d ever cheated on her.
My ex-wife called this afternoon
& asked me the same thing.
What’s going on?
That new Italian movie
the art film crowd adores,
the characters hysterical, nearly
operatic, their marriages dead
or dying. I imagine all the couples
sipping cappuccino after the movie,
nibbling biscotti, that close
to confessing their own infidelities.
I love my wife. I don’t whine
about my latest chore, cleaning
the litter box four or five times
a day. I can imagine one
of those histrionic Italian husbands
fuming, yearning for his mistress
as he kneels by the reeking box,
scooping cat feces & urinous clots
of litter into a plastic bag.
The second I’m done, our old cat
comes running. Otherwise,
he limps from room to room, moaning
like the ghost of some animal
whose bladder burst.
I love that old cat. Most nights
he snuggles under the comforter,
buzzing between me & my wife like a
space heater I need to repair.
Comments about this poem (Litter Box by Jefferson Carter )
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