What man, after all, needs to glance up from bed and find gauze curtains with crochet flowers blocking the morning light

When is there any right time to feel the frustration of taking to task offspring, not his own

Why, I ask, would he ask for the bounty of trouble, help, and honest beauty She brings to the table, when there’s plenty of “elseness” on his plate

Who’d wish for a real-live helpmate when the workshed walls are already perfectly papered with such willing hands

Where is there any avenue he’d daydream for a walk, anyway

Oh, love