Most days
Shuffling behind him, collecting his socks,
She regards his three heads and
Two left feet, bedhead breath, beer belly,
Broken bones and battered plans
And sighs.
Wraps a great blanket of judgment
Around him, burrito style,
And calls it love
Or something.

Until today.
Alone out on the porch
In front of God and the neighbors,
Matted mane half-tamed and smarting.
Her shoes are off, t-shirt stained,
Makeup a smoky memory.
She is eating cardboard
With feta and pepperoni
From a Domino’s box.
She licks her greasy fingers
And sighs,
Seeing with some certainty
That we all have our days
Or will.

Image credit:Michał Kubalczyk

Julie Desmond (she/hers) is a career coach with a thing for Irish writing, living in the heart of Minneapolis, MN. Find her books online and her poetry at Open Arts Forum, Lower Stumpf Lake Review, Diotima, Down in the Dirt, Classical Poetry Society, and at