the murderer's spouse

a groaning wheel, you slink from bed sated,
and our strain aims squarely for the temple.
elevators scare us silly, migraines
are ground floors – the boxes have grown tenfold,
suddenly vagabonds, cancerous stalks.

you crave outlets for your needed musings,
whether gold plated or a pagan toy,
as the curtains are drawn this fine Thursday.
hobble downstairs in those faded blue shoes,
walk, grab the pitcher, and the tea's duller.

scream – pour it into my abandoned mug.
long years take less hikes to make, nowadays.
we danced nocturnes atop our era's bones.
your lover is dead, which comes as The Chair -
electrocution without shock (that's me.)