After you stormed off last night,
with the bells on the front door
still ringing like they could be heard,
I went off to our bedroom
and checked our joint email account.
I don’t know where you went, or are.
Don’t know if you will come back.
That was one hell of a bloody row
we threw, right there in the kitchen.
But we got a few emails that say differently.
The situation in the Middle East
emailed us and said they watched our blowup live,
and that our shouting and picking at each other’s soft spots
came off as stale, weak, phoned-in, even.
The leaked photographs
of the naked and pregnant
found our camera angles too jittery,
the view of our dust-up claustrophobic.
The shoving match at the Lakers game
found our tears unconvincing.
Please come back
so we can fight again,
one more time in our kitchen;
the glass has been swept up;
the blood is dry on the dials
of the daiquiri maker;
I know we can do better than this.