Papa Bitch snores
On the couch.
Awake he's a bigger
Bitch than I am. Asleep
He's no less the grouch.

Into the wee hours I work,
Deadline snapping at my heels
Like the hounds of hell themselves.
Only a lonely bulb keeps watch.

He lies upon a patchwork couch,
Forefingers plugging his ears,
His legs crossed as if he were lounging
On the grass of a lush lawn
Under a star-shining clear night.

His posture belies his snores,
Long and loud,
Sudden crescendo
Akin to a freight train
Booming in high-fidelity stereo.
My fingers slow on the keyboard
And I spare a quick glance his way.

His brow furrows and he grunts
As if to say: What are you looking at?
Get back to work, the deadline fingers are snapping!
In the half-light, he puckers his lips,
Making them ripe for kissing.
In the shadows he moves his hips,
Making them temptation to the...

But no, I have to get back to my story.
This poem is all wrong.
Ah, Papa Bitch, it is what is wrong
That feels all too right.

He throws a hand over his face,
Grimaces as in exasperation.
Snores a long, low, stage whisper
That whistles at the end.
Then he cups his chin in a palm
And turns as if to glower at me.

What spoils the illusion
Is that his eyelids are
Firmly shut, his thick black lashes
Casting long shadows,
And he continues to snore
In a drone of angry bees.

I get up to cover him
With the smelly blanket
He won't let me wash.
Even in sleep, he grips it,
Still suspicious of my motives.

Gently, gently,
I smooth the flannel
Over his slumber-flattened paunch.
He grunts and stops snoring.
He smiles and sighs,
Returning to dreams
I cannot witness.

I return to my orphaned copy
For that is where I am supposed to be.

* A true account of how my husband sleeps this morning. I really do love him, the bitch, my bitch.