Shred the Safehouse

"Maude" is on the suspended television.
There are cracks in the leather chairs.
This house is made of bricks.
I've got candy bars in my purse,
farewell get well soon gifts from my husband.
He sits beside me reading one of his Mars books.
I keep apologizing.
He has to work in the morning.
"It isn't right. You've done all the work," I tell him.
He has done most of the work
these six long years.
I have slept painted written writhed
played the role of broken bitch
well beyond the fix of steadfast love.
"Three's Company."
A dead audience laughs at Chrissy Snow.
I tell the counselor I keep thinking of the oven.
He looks like my first husband, bland and pretty.
He's of no use.
There's a commercial for a new kitchen time saver.
The skinny teenager on the couch mutters his disgust.
"Peeling eggs is the best part of Thanksgiving!"
At some point, probably during "The Ropers,"
I start sobbing.
I want to leave.
I'm sorry for my husband.
Sorry for the hours.
Sorry for everything I am and will continue to be.
I want sex, fresh sex, the easy fix
as substantive as cotton candy
on the tongue.
Only in the throes of orgasm
am I less me more it.
Meat. Plant. Divine.
I cannot even kiss my husband.
I do not miss his snuggle.
He pats my back, tells me I'll feel better soon.
Then "Sanford and Son" comes on
and I laugh out loud against my wishes.
This used to be our show.