It

In the morning, putting on pants, its gangling legs become entangled with mine. It has thrown pillows on the floor again. It has made a permanent dent in the recliner seat. Leafing through notebooks of old poems, I find more evidence of its hand sabotaging my life. It stalks me in Target like a thrifty wife, while my thrifty wife controls it with remote eyes. It is older than me, fatter and less agile. It sends ornaments crashing to the floor as I pass. On rainy Wednesdays it will shrink itself into a small hump-backed mood. Tonight I suspect it will drink too much. Yesterday evening it trod on my spectacles. It will be sorry tomorrow morning, but I am done with all of its excuses.