The Honeymoon Was Over Before It Ever Started

Except on Sundays, the day of rest and church.
he's up at four and from under the sheets pontificates to his poor spouse
subjects of social import, Wall Street imploding,the new tenants in the White House.
Should she dare raise a question,
he takes it as an affront to his integrity.
A monologue is not a conversation.

She tries her best to lock him out,
but somehow the words get through,
though little else of him has hit the mark.
They have no children, and who's to say
if it's because of him or it's because of her.

He's an eagle scout attendant,
a certified micro manager of minutiae.
Has even marked the carpet
as to where each piece of furniture should sit.

As to her, she's an unfulfilled artist
who used to paint landscape in delicate day breaks,
but ever since the goddamn landscapes reached her uterus,
she paints them abstract and furious.

How long can this keep going on?
Perhaps, till death pulls them apart.
He thinks himself a martyr.
She promised her mother she would not leave him.