Sometimes love looks like a man stained
elbow-deep in mulch the color she likes, tar black
to make the snowball bushes he dislikes really pop.
It is the love in pinched to-do lists
on the backs of hospital bills, debt
they must not forget to repay.
Sometimes love looks like a man leaning,
Gene Kelly ringing a lightpole, foreshortened,
one leg dangling off an extension ladder
to hang bat-houses for the woman
holding that ladder.
It’s love in a silent spell
tinkering in separate rooms
checking off the list bottom-first.
Sometimes love looks like three Bar-S hotdogs
steamrolling across the grill nine-thirty at night
because it’s been a long day
and he can cook himself something –
one for her, too, if she changes her mind.
Edie Meade is a writer, artist, and mother of four in Huntington, West Virginia. Recent work can be found in Feral, Still: The Journal, New Flash Fiction Review, and elsewhere. Say hi on Twitter @ediemeade or https://ediemeade.com/
Photo by Markus Spiske from Pexels