My Wife Is Mad At Her Would-Be Poet

My wife is angry with me tonight, She said I gawked at a young lady’s buttocks in Wal-Mart. I explained that such an action was rude, and I would never do that, that I’m too old for such foolishness; but I’m having “Raisin Bran” for supper. It was quite on the ride home. I unloaded Wal-Mart bags, got online, typed in my password, drank a six pack of beer, smoked a half pack of Sports (the cheaper brand of cigs to die from) while reading all I could find by Charles Bukowski (Bukowski wasn’t a poet, not in the ordinary sense.) She wouldn’t hand me a beer. She wouldn’t talk to me. That’s Ok, I didn’t do anything wrong, and I can get my own beer. I’m avoiding her by writing this thing, this poem, or whatever you want to call it. Tomorrow I’ll post this thing in Poetry Soup. Poetry Soup is an online poetry forum. They (the poets) have already found me out. I can’t write; one or two poems was all the proof needed. No one will read this but that’s Ok too. After all, in the ordinary sense I’m not a poet either. I’ll finish this thing, drink the rest of my other six pack, wad an empty cig wrapper, toss it to the trash. She’ll be asleep by then, then I can sneak into bed rest my drunk head on a soft pillow and dream about that fine, young tail at Wal-mart.