12-19 A Wrinkle In The Icing

I cleaned the dishes,
scrubbed the dried egg off,
while the rain washed the windows,
for me, watching,
two housewives,
taking the garbage out,
tying the bag tight enough,
so the banana peels don't slip out,
wiping the drippings off of the floor,
careful cleaning his pan out,
with soft utensils, as requested,
pausing for a moment,
to watch the finches gather in horde,
pecking at the smoked worm patte,
before picking up scraps of santa and
plaid paper and wiping up the remnants of
an evening smoke on his table,
when I noticed a wrinkle in the icing
on the gingerbread cookie I left at his place,
frowning, I went to look at it closer,
but the imperfections of my movement,
broke the head off,
I panicked,
thinking he would notice,
running the gauntlet of his responses,
in my head from the gentle back pat,
to the concerned smoking stick of his lips,
judging, the growling crescendo of a bear
in a honey's hive, or the indifference of a
stale cookie left to usher in the new year,
I panicked,
thinking he would notice,
the finches gathering again in their horde,
mewling at the window, the rain
slapping insults and hushes upon the deck,
the scraps of paper left on the table curling,
the balls of smoke blurring, smudging,
the eggs cracked and drying, and I,
a once-again house-wife,
a once-again house-wife,
sitting on the floor near the heater vent,
apron strings tied,
thinking he would notice,
the wrinkle in the icing.