She asks me if I’ve taken out the trash yet,
and because I haven’t, I don’t answer her.
I continue watching the game, feeling a little guilty,
but I’m caught up in this thrilling march downfield.
She asks again, am I taking it out now because,
as I don’t need reminding, tomorrow’s garbage pick-up day.
I remind her yes, I know that, and I continue to watch,
excited now by a naked-boot TD, ashamed some, too.
I hear her coming down the stairs, and even though
I know the jig’s nearly up, I still stay glued to the screen.
She’s leaning in the doorway now, I can sense it,
rigid against the door jamb, her arms crossed, glaring.
Not a word is spoken, and I say, “I’ll do it right now,”
but I stay seated, knowing this will only incur her wrath.
And then she’s gone, headed into the kitchen as I cheer,
and I hear her carry the trash bag out the back door.
Lanning Lee 