She used to call me Muffin
when I stepped from the shower,
steaming and smelling
of shea shampoo.
Now she calls me
through her lawyer
who calls me Mr. Gregory,
a name that has always inspired me
to see myself as a member of the English gentry.
I asked him to call me sir, duke, or lord.
I asked him to drop the ‘y.’
Doesn’t Count Gregor sound damn romantic?
He refuses. I don’t mind. Titles don’t suit me,
truth be told. And I’m too poor to be confused
with aristocracy anyway.
I’d give my kidneys to still be Muffin but,
after baking my wife’s candle collection in the oven,
she doesn’t speak to me, no matter how
I butter her up.
I’m giving in, giving out.
I take cold showers now.
I tossed my shea shampoo.
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