The second year’s the worst, I’ve found: nervous
Tic grown charmless, thuds like water-torture
In the eye; belching, worse, noted, endured;
The fog of romance cleared, clay feet abound.
Nor am I sinless in this withering
Review: I knew which buttons to push and
Trigger-happy, put sand in your panties,
Conjured ogres of your past, revived bad dreams.
It’s hard to play the silver knight, wiping
Mustard on the invariant sandwich. Still,
Come slog with me this muck of daily chores,
And press ‘til we emerge renewed.
Let this noxious tedium drum: love’s test
Is almost done. We’ll rest and overcome.
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