The maestro at 32 Valentine lane has
maple breath from his three rotting teeth.
Each morning he waves that smile of his,
and the neighbors think him stinkin’ sweet.

Yet, in the secret curtained rooms of love
he is a vile musician, slamming fists
on counter tops and conducting order
over the orchestra of spilt milk that collects

in the kitchen sink. His lucky queen proclaims
him the lord of eggy pans and stir fry noodles
gone astray. She marks the calendar days off
one by one, meticulous about measuring

eternity, but nothing else