Honeymoon Phase

I used to think of you in a different way.
Too much vanilla in runny pancake batter,
On laundry day we walked around the house
In bath robes and crisp white socks,
And falling asleep on our porch-swing in the late summer breeze.

My wooden clock is still there over the bed.
The cupboards in the bathroom are still painted turquoise.
But the spot where you burned the carpet with the vacuum
Is covered by a new couch.
It looks uncomfortable.

Ella has no taste in home decor.
She can't cook.
And, as far as I can see, she has no inclination to clean.
But that's the type of stuff you don't notice in a woman
Who can only come over when your wife and three children aren't home.

The lawyer wanted to split things up 50/50.
Simple and civil.
I just wanted the kids, the Honda,
And to roast the both of you
Over the fire of your Audi's exploded engine.

I know where you keep the extra key,
You aren't smart enough to have moved it.
And the neighbours always liked me best.
So, when I sneek into the house I made a home for five years,
I'm sure "no one" will notice.

I open the refrigerator and the freezer doors.
I turn on all the lights.
I pour a gallon of milk over your bed.
Vinegar goes on the new couch.
Ground pepper in your fancy ground European coffee.

Enjoy your two week honeymoon in Hawaii.