I can’t stay mad at you. You smear my walls with jam,
insult my songs, destroy my phone, use up
all the toilet paper, break my favorite chair,
wreck my car, let the inside cat get outside,
drip motor oil on my new white Chucks.
You tell my ex where I’m living.
But your mess is wonder, it’s art, you are
God throwing trash from a moving car
and making beauty happen.

. .