In four years of marriage
we never made a waffle
and now we're fighting about the waffle iron.
She wants to beat me over the head with it.
Then pictures come off walls,
post cards, drawings, photographs.
Everything is pushed neatly off the mantle,
but a small Amish lantern
I gave her a while ago.
I don't even try to argue
about how we're dividing the music.
That night I make about a hundred waffles,
keeping them warm in the oven
until there's no more room.
Then I open all the boxes
and cram the waffles inside,
taking out wads of newspaper.
I light the Amish lamp,
rocking slowly in the chair
that she's taking tomorrow,
scan the old headlines for something
I may have missed months ago,
a scratched album on the turntable,
its music whispering and hoarse.
I gently tap my foot to the memory.
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