our date nights have the television on
while we nestle on the sofa—
Arrested Development reruns are our fireplace
and Diet Coke is our bubbly;
our love-making is singing the kids to sleep
(all those songs we sang together in college
will finally come in handy: Who's seen Jezebel?)—
our cuddling afterward
has become paying our bills online.
our sporadic kisses are slices of pepperoni
from last-minute pizza runs because we got too caught up
to make a real dinner;
i will whisk you away in a minivan
to our romantic destination of the State Fair
where our bottle of red wine is a corndog
with just a dollop of mustard.
i want to complain about my prostate to you.