I always point out your many mistakes, 
like lights left ablaze in the garage or living room. 
You must be tired of all my bellyaches. 

Our silverware crusted with vile foodstuff flakes, 
or drinking glasses with a half-washed bloom. 
I always accentuate your numerous mistakes. 

Must you turn the TV to a volume that produces shakes? 
Stick odd liquids in unmarked containers to consume? 
You must be sick of all my bellyaches. 

Your laundry piles high in one mere day. For goodness sakes, 
I don’t need to hear the amount of carbs in each legume! 
I can always count on your countless mistakes. 

Mirror smudges smeared in the shape of the Great Lakes 
as you chatter nonstop or shut down into gloom. 
You must be bored with all my bellyaches. 

Scissors have a place to return to—is that so opaque? 
You spread to my side of the bed, leave me no elbowroom. 
I always emphasize your endless mistakes. 
Even I am worn out from all my bellyaches. 

Bio: Scott Wiggerman