A poem by Bob Hicok, from The Legend of Light

Man of the House

It was a misunderstanding.

I got into bed, made love

with the woman I found there,

called her honey, mowed the lawn,

had three children, painted

the house twice, fixed the furnace,

overcame an addiction to blue pills,

read Spinoza every night

without once meeting his God,

buried one child, ate my share

of Jell-o and meatloaf,

went away for nine hours a day

and came home hoarding my silence,

built a ferris wheel in my mind,

bolt by bolt, then broke it

just as it spun me to the top.

Turns out I live next door.