You made space for me
that postage stamp square
under the table and surrounded:
chairs, junk, dust bunnies,
the weight of your burdens.
I never stopped shoveling
through the detritus
that collection of your worst days ever.
A fruitless hope to find your hand reaching for mine at the other end
a glimpse maybe, in my direction
at your whim
the stuff of years:
anger, sadness, and confusion.
And me with my own burdens on my back,
yet glad for your dribs and drabs.
for the impossibly tipped scale.
Then I saw my own face in the mirror,
and not yours,
leapt from that precarious height,
p.s. Oh me, oh my, this is not about the dear hubster!