Nobody took a broom up
as she brought in the barbed wire.
Somehow a wet dot of milk
creeps onto her nipple too.
And, Christ! when she sets out
the tiniest mugs
for whiskey-drinking fairies
how can anyone be smug?
She brings me a screwdriver and a hammer
and five dollars, I carry home
for her a purple coat.
This is only true.
Why, then, is my love feeding
me chicken soup while I
list her marvels against those
of a hundred years from now
when physics like a child is vindicated?