that doesn’t put cigarettes out
he just throws them down      or drops them in ashtrays

maybe when the smoke      of their smoldering carcasses
             has filled the room      he’ll take the ashtray to the sink
and pour water on it      then he keeps it like that
             he calls it butt-soup

you have to understand      how much I hate him
             he never does the dishes      just leaves
                          them to sit until I can’t stand it anymore
if he runs out of forks      he eats sandwiches      if he runs out of bread
                          he doesn’t eat

same with the trash      or laundry      or cleaning      he doesn’t understand
             life      that living leaves a mess

             he sits all day in a bath robe      watching TV until his friends call
                          and he rises      turns it off and is gone
leaving me nothing      but the things he‘s cast off      from himself