Eggs for dinner, again.

At times
in retrospect
I wish
that the bear whose sense of smell we piqued
with our shameful streamside act
had done us in
right then and there

but more often than not
I'm just sorry for making you
take your tongue ring out
and various razor changes.

And like the rest
you hated how I ripped my fingernails off.
I find it a thing of convenience
but what do women know of that word?,
other than the danger of complacency
that hides in its wake.

The nailclipper you bought me
sat in my desk drawer
until it broke somehow.
It didn't go both ways, you see.

You followed me through three houses
until you finally lost the trail
for another
somewhere in the Catskills.
No one trusts an odd number
so we'll stay even, like
'52 and '68-- yeah I still know
but won't have the nerve
to crush more toenails
so don't lose any sleep
any heart
any thing.
Anything?

Whenever I'm truly gone
and alone with him
I have to fight the urge to ask
by convincing myself that I already know:
you're better than you were before
though that's not saying much.

So what have we learned, class?
That love is like anything else:
it comes with old tomatoes
ultimatums, rather
and prices far too high to pay up front
so we throw trivial bits and pieces
of ourselves at it in an attempt to comply with
this warped installment plan
that our Maker has laid out for us.

"Play nice or I'll take it back," He says.
What an Indian giver.

But I hear He grants eternal life
to anyone who can lick their elbow
though who in their right mind
would want that?