Nothing Means Much Anymore
by Daniel Gallik
I say, the maintenance. She
speaks after putting the pots
away, huh? I chat, doesn’t
marriage need it? She goes
to get the vacuum. Plugs it
in. Does the living room. I
go to my room. I have been
sleeping there since I started
snoring. I ready myself. I
hate these parties. You know
the ones. Drinks, appetizers,
dumb games, and lots of talk.
My only friend there is Jim
Beam. She says to the first
guest, oh, I’ve been reading
and watching the food channel.
I slur, yeah, and I’ve been
outside mowing, changing oil
in the Mercedes, and watching
the lady next door sunbathing.
