Airing the Husband
My mother aired her laundry.
I air my husband.
He sits in the dark,
grumbles, gets
dank and musty.
Face transforms into
old bark and burls.
Lichen-covered, moss
begins to grow
on his north side.
He schleps up the stairs.
Watches the news,
yells at TV people.
At times, he and the lawn mower
disappear to make noise,
cut things down.
He comes home
tired and dusty.
I lead him out the door
into the light,
into the car.
Short trips to see
the sky, other distant people.
Warm breezes blow
through the mildewed mood.
The lines smooth,
crust slowly disappears,
voice mellows.
For a while,
he smells like sunshine.
Wonderful poem!! There are so many great things to comment about. I love the subject matter and it is handled with a lot of humour and wit. I also like your use of some slang such as schlept…slang or onomatopeia? Beautifully done!
Thank you for the lovely comments and for taking time to read my poem.
My curmudgeon husband has a few poems written about him.
Hi Sue Storts,
I often wonder what a spouse would be like growing old in a funk, needing a push to keep living. You did that for me – such love!
Seventh Solstise