I go to bed with Snow White. Her skin is a field of lilies, but
she sings in her sleep about someday; I want to yell, “I’m here right now.”
Why didn’t I marry the one who took fairy Ambien, or the one who can’t talk?
When dawn breaks, Snow offers me coffee & juice and oatmeal, breakfast in bed.
I think things are looking up, until she says, “It’s fresh! Apple-cinnamon!
The nice old lady selling produce gave me a free sample.”
I compost the oats and agree to a party to cheer her; she misses days gone by.
But her small hairy friends bring pick axes to the fest; they also sing too much,
except the one who scowls in the corner. I get it; I’m grumpy, too.
The next morn as Snow slumbers, I rise and look where I musn’t—
in her diary, marked private, i’s dotted with hearts, she’s written,
“I wish he were a frog, or at least a little more charming. Le sigh.”
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who’s the least content of all?