My Turn To Man the Lazy Boy

I think it is your turn to do the dishes, he says. I do not more or react. He has momentarily lost his mind Not remembering that I am thirty-five years ahead of him on cleaning, cooking, doing the laundry and the yard work. I remain in my Lazy-Boy, not turning or acknowledging his hint He shuffles silently away, perhaps remembering his thirty-five years in his Lazy-Boy Or maybe remembering That I do not care if all the dishes stack up to the ceiling I do not care if they are crusty and wormy. I do not care if the roaches dance on top of our counters. I do not care if mice build villages in the kitchen or sleep in our bed. It is my turn to man the Lazy-Boy.