Husbands
fill up
the whole world
block
the horizon
take charge
make
decisions
are all over
never call
on Sundays.

In the evening
they come
creeping
with a bottle
of cheap sherry.
You let them in
in droves
and try to
distinguish one
from the other.

They are fat
or thin
vertical
or horizontal.
They secrete
tenderness
and good advice
in return for hastily donned
helplessness.

With cheery
possessiveness
they fry eggs
afterward
stuff themselves
flush the toilet
repair
the TV
tell
peculiar anecdotes
about their children
pull the wife
out of their wallet.

You clean up
after the last one leaves
sweep up bits of pipe tobacco
smooth out the dent
in the pillow
go to bed
are alone
have had enough
and start over
tomorrow
in the hopes of
one of them
someday becoming
distinct
and different
and calling
on a Sunday.