“It’s no small thing, this coming
To this cantabile. Living
With him’s been fever from outset
Sixteen years ago. For sixteen years I’ve sat
And waited for things to get better. I have to laugh.
You know, I used to dream that I might ebb to death
Or else he fall in love again and turn the hose
On someone else. Well, I suppose he has.
I thought I sensed an absence, and today he left his poached
Egg staring like a dying eye, his toast untouched.”
‘Monologue at Nine A.M.’ by Louise Glück