I deeply regret,
that we are so compatible.
When you are gone,
it will make life uninhabitable.

Why can’t you be grouchy
and yell at me a lot?
I will embark on an affair
if you wear burlap underwear.

I will leave my socks, jocks
and pajamas on the floor,
my wet towels, hanging on a door,
if you will not be so generous,
whenever I am feeling amorous.

We must stop bathing
in this sea of tranquility.
I will be a fatso,
if you will get thee to the casino
and play the slots to infinity.

I will watch ESPN all day long,
and toss the rotogravure
before you read the stories,
if you will stop cooking cacciatore
and doing all the laundry.

You can count on me to fart,
and belch like an alcoholic,
if you will bounce checks
like a shopaholic.

I will stop taking out the garbage
if you stop wearing perfume
and dress the threadbare outfits
belonging to your great grandmere.

I will stop writing poems,
and listening to PBS,
if you invite your cranky mother
to move in, and eat every cookie
in the flour bin.

I will start driving like a maniac,
and tailgate every car,
if you promise to force me
to sit through chorales
at the Russian Easter Service
while bells peal out glad tidings.

I will take you sailing
until you can’t stop upchucking,
if only you will oblige me
by buying more high-heel shoes
that curl up your toes
and ruin your tap-dancing.

If you start boozing,
I will cut my nails
and leave the parings on the floor.
I will speed through every yellow light
until you jump out the door.

I will no longer be so milquetoasty
and will charge at you like a bull
with a booming voice you never heard,
if you will wear gold earrings, a tiara
and transparent blouses every day.

I will smell up the house making gefilte fish
if you start playing competitive bridge
and join the country club to play golf,
paying the $25,000 initiation fee.

Why can’t we ever fight?