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The Tiffs They Call As Brawls

They seem to be so happy,
For others, they are a cause for envy.
They do have their differences,
That never seem to bother thee.

The tiffs they call as brawls,
Start with who’s to attend the phone calls?
Then he expects her to cook,
Just when she’s buried deep in a book.

Mornings he’s off to work,
Evenings he’s down and out.
The letters say her mother’s arriving,
A fact that he wants to forget all about.

He wants to help, she says,
“I’ll do it myself,”
‘Cause many times
He’s just begun to mop the floor,
When his friends have knocked at the door.

And yet they say we are happy,
And happy we shall stay.
The rosy picture sure does melt,
When the visitors have gone away.

I wrote this poem in 2005,
When a dear cousin of mine was getting married.
See also
Life in a Harmonic Motion