Today I poke around your throat
and laugh at jokes you steal.
At night I search for the remote,
amid the couch, our home’s trench coat,
I pat and scrounge, reveal.
Today I choke around your throat
a scarf I found inside my tote.
(Bones, they squeak, then heal.)
At night I search and feel remote,
the more I know, the less I vote
and turn my steering wheel.
Today you spoke around my throat,
hid words I had, hid my gloat.
(Our pillows kiss and squeal.)
That fight and search for our remote
may have sucked my last grace note.
Cross-leggéd, lost checks, loose meals,
some okay coke inside my throat,
It’s white! (I lurch for our remote.)