The Trimmed Bush

Grouchy, she said, you are
grouchy this morning. Your face
looks like leftovers from
yesterday’s casserole.
He thought, she comes to
breakfast with her hair in
curlers, wrapped in a sloppy gown,
bare feet in flapping slippers.
She used to bloom in the
mornings with a fresh dress
and neatly combed hair. Perhaps
I ought to trim her a little,
shape her clean and neat.
She asked, what are you grinning about?
He answered, I was thinking of the
spirea bush I cut back last fall,
the one that burst out all white
with blossoms this spring.