it all started,
innocently enough,
a few years ago:
I would retire to the bedroom
and watch moronic sitcom reruns
as my wife sat in the living room
watching an endless stream
of real-life murder shows
and, to be honest,
it never really bothered me
until the other night when
on the coffee table
I noticed her elegant
handwriting all over
a yellow notepad
which looked
suspiciously like
a checklist
note to self:
this Valentine's Day
splurge for roses
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem