We married young,
aware that we’d taken
a step out of turn —
we had cut in line
and not been caught.

But we could play house —
I threw on an apron,
you did up the dishes.
No one would know
the difference.

After a decade, our feet ached —
we were still clomping
around the house
in those big shoes
we’d found.

This summer we kicked them off;
now you put on the apron,
while I pour us a drink.
You melt butter in the pot —
and later — I’ll wash up.

Sarah Dunning Park

* * *

Originally published at The Art of Simple.




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Sarah Dunning Park

Sarah Dunning Park

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