Chores

My Sweetie wears out every evening around six o’clock
It’s not so much that I need to replace the breasts
(again)
(though I do)
but that she’s simply worn out.

So I spend all night tinkering with her.

Oil, rubber washers, that ever-rusted hinge in her elbow.

I need to just go get me a new one.

I need to learn my lesson.

 

I need to stop shopping at Wal-Mart.

 

 

 

[ This poem was slapped together one afternoon when I stumbled across the instructions for FTA's "My Sweetie Wears" contest. The requirement was merely that a poem begin with those three words. I thought about it, found an idea I liked, and wrote it. The finished version received an honorable mention and is reasonably entertaining. What more can be asked of an hour's labor? Besides pizza, I mean. ]