The Goldfish

When you heard my wife’s car
pull into the driveway,
you jumped out of bed,

attacked your blue jeans,
stuffed your panties in my pillow case
and ran out the back door

still tugging at your blouse.
I lay in bed
and relished the aftermath,

recalling the days
when my wife and I
had a sex life, too.

“What did you do all day,
you lazy butt?” my wife barked
as she peered into the bedroom

before heading to the kitchen.
“What do you want for dinner?” she yelled.
“Meatloaf.” I said,

and then I flushed your panties
down the toilet bowl
like a dead goldfish.