She dressed every evening
for his return from the office—

hose and heels, a nice dress,
waiting with a martini and a smile.

Cocktail hour, as she fluttered in the kitchen,
began when he took off his coat.

First today, he said.
Happy landings, she said.

Imagine the perfection of her
holding the Chesterfield to her lips

for him to light. Try to explain
how her screaming at him later

did not wake the children.
Which was worse: her slap in the face,

or his calm down, Maggie; watch
your blood pressure.

For extra credit, clean up after they’ve
fallen, exhausted, in bed,

so next morning no one could recite
anything that happened.