By Marian Glaser © November, 2001
Laura inhaled the aroma and curved her hands around her coffee mug.
She had awoken three days ago to her husband’s cough. He had a bug.
She thought, “He promised to love me.” She took a chug.
“I promised too. We weren’t drunk. There was no drug.”
She couldn’t fix Wayne’s cough but she’d give him a hug.
He’d be much easier to clean than those toffee apples dropped on the rug
or the time their children had found her glove. They’d put in a slug.
Wayne was facing a rough sea. She’d be his tug.
She’d care for him and whisper softly until he’d lost this bug.
They’d soon be sitting on their sofa, watching t.v.. What he’d glug
might be something he had to swallow, making a face and saying, “Ugh!”
She’d let him sleep and bake the cookies she’d promised Tommy and Doug.
She’d cover their macaroni with ketchup. After shoving their plates away they’d eat with that shrug
that seemed to shout, “Tough it out. He who pretends to understand parents is a mug.”
She’d taken Wayne their home-made card, watching him smile reading they send their “luff”. The rug
might have been ripped when their dog (named after Dennis’ Ruff) had tried to bury a bone. The tug
he’d given the couch pillows must have been an attempt to hide the rip and get an undeserved hug
but their card would help their dad get better. With that card they’d given him a loving hug.