Running After Sheryl

I got a Norman hand-made guitar, you got a guitar made by a monkey.
I listen to 60s rock, you like French pop singers.
I don’t cry at movies, you keep a tissue box by the remote.
I drink too much, and you only try to stop me a little.

In the kitchen I’m playing Miles Davis, with John and sitar and tambura.
In the bedroom you’re doing make-up and hair and standing sideways at the mirror.
Patting your tummy.
By the bedroom door Charlie is upside down and sleeping, really sleeping.
Halfway down the house my thick blue trekking socks are drying and I’m thinking will they be dry for me to wear them to school.
The kotatsu is on and Milkshake has found a place to hide there. Charlie faces the window outside his cat house and watches the rain and watches out for his feral friend who eats his food and leaves his ears scarred and matted with blood.
All this. That’s who I am.