small quilled poem with no taste for spring

In spring all the poems that need to be written

Have. You are neither dejected nor relieved. Scrape and

Paint. Scrape and paint a grey house white.

Feel something! Your husband, the one married to all the appetites,

Shouts to someone up on a ladder, someone who looks sort of

Like you: disinterested, spated, thin as a cloud.

It's spring again and so the melancholiacs. And so the fat

Sharp animals pace your roof at night: feeding, quilled, recurrent

Dreams. You will never live up to this

Life, they will never refer to you as voluptuous.

You can't remember the last time

you wore a dress.     You pressed your mouth

To the phone.