I write poems while he soaks his feet
In Epsom Salt Basted turkey roast pan
Watching John Wayne in his armchair theatre
I drink wine, count syllable beats
He wears plaid boxers just because he can
I'm stuck with the bleacher butt seat.
Flipping channels, “Doctor, do you concur?”
He drinks his beer as Emeril says “Bam!”
Stars in the sky are just a blur
I say trick as he responds “treat”
He steals the remote~he's the man
I kick aside some football cleats.
I rhyme words as he turns to E.R.
Continues soaking, asks if I have Spam
Mother, mother, I'll have another.
He uses my pumice stone, a real feat
That's alright ‘cause I steal his Ban
Can't stand the kitchen or the heat so
Writing in the living room with mister
Foot blister.
