My husband slips under the quilt,
turns a warm shoulder, the sunny-side up
of flannel, then dreams, Dammit, Rosa,
I love your Spanish mutton. As he trembles,
the four-poster reverberates through
the epistles of St. Paul in my hands.
I gather his rapture with half-closed eye.
Questions whirr like the washer in full
centrifugal force. Less efficient than that,
they slosh suds despite continuous drying.
Something is broken. In due time,
he will awaken to eat last week's roast turkey,
confront the machine, explain Rosa.