the drunk and the floozy

I'm sorry I came home drunk
and hit you last night. I'm sorry,
most of all, that it bruised. I'm
sorry that I've gained a fascination
from loving, and hating, you.

/ The violin plays.
I asked my boss for a raise.
It takes a bit of the strange
to go on every day.

Do you hear the apology
or do you sit in the recliner,
cross-legged, staring on blankly
for a reason? Are you trying to make
a point? Would you like a joint? I'll
do what I can.

/ The bruises
like accessories, pairing
with her favorite dress. She
puts in her diamond earrings,
puts on her fur coat, then waits
for me to get home. I tell her that
the restaurant had to cancel our
reservations.
It was me.

Don't look at me like that,
and stop flinching when I touch
you. I'm not pressing down on your
wings, or whispering mean things--this
is us, darling. You said you wanted to be
loved in a way you could see, and here is me,
delivering---bruises and sex, treating you just
like the floozy you are. I match your scars
with my tongue and hope I have the tape
recorder handy for when you come undone.

/ You let me do it. It was
your fault. You kept the handgun
in the vault. I came home to find the
bathroom repainted.