Dear Wife

Dear Wife

I have no bucket. I cannot find one. No, I am not blaming you this time, for misplacing or re-appropriating it. The fault is mine, or the fault of some divine or demonic illustrator who forgot to pencil me in one, otherwise erasing it. Dear Wife, your spilling is messy and I am wet. Your tears and sadness filled up my thimble, torrential. And I cannot find containment for the sadness that I am often blessed to be given. You deserve a dam. Concrete walls firm, yet forgiving and rubbery like my oft stolen rain jacket. Though, I believe Hoover or Cooley's thirst would soon be satiated and overflown. Dear Wife, your sadness is sacred and I quickly profane it, throwing my thimble at you. I know your sorrow's tanninic springs to burst forth from entropy yet come from a source, well reasoned as Pythagoras. Dear wife, I do not have a bucket. I cannot find one. I will search one out.