The writer’s husband
must take her dinner
because she is married
to a black silk shirt today
and refuses to be soiled
with the practicalities of life.
Yesterday a house dress
depressed her.
He said there was
nothing wrong
with a house dress,
she knew better.
She recognized it
for what it was,
the most dangerous act
of her life,
and like dietary indiscretion
nothing to repeat
two days in a row.

What can a man know
about these things,
what giving up
lurks just on the outskirts
of comfort,
what squandered lives
sneak in with a laziness
of intention.