I’m not going to say a thing
about last night,
not a single thing 
about how you staggered in,
searching your pockets
for your cell phone,
reeking of cigar smoke
and burping gin.
I’m not going to say a thing
about how this is the third time
this month you promised
we would do something
together on a Saturday night
–a movie, a ball game, dinner out–
only to find myself alone all day
waiting, waiting,
with my hair washed
and my nails done,
wearing the pink blouse
and the tiny seashell necklace
you bought me in Florida
on our one-and-only vacation.
I’m not going to say a thing
about your trip to Lowe’s
that ended in a bar
for the third time this month.
I’m not going to say a single thing.