Beautiful dreamer, head in the clouds,
soon waking to take on the worst
the world can throw into wards
and lockdown, wounded birds
in padded cages.

Dressed an angelic hue, 
toaster waffle edges browned,
a daub of blush, smear of gloss,
now you’re ready to be the man,
a role for which we never planned.

Knowing the sixteen ways to disable 
and diffuse, only having to use 
one or two to keep me working 
the vacuum to get at the cat
hair beneath the significant chair,
so different from retail you,
the one before this second calling.

Bravely, bravely you plow ahead
into those chaotic rooms
while I consider window streaks,
the rising cost
of store bought tomatoes,
left behind to ponder
what’s come over you,
and what, my love, will become of us.