Fighting

Still they are fighting—it’s hard to watch.

I steal my solace in single-malt scotch.

Their bed, safely fenced to keep out brown,

Has its pillows laced—I service their down.

Their locked driveway ends in treasonous climb.

Her indulgent piano vamps away time.

His home economy is chock full of slush.

I, their domestic, try hard not to blush.

If there is a fault, I am the one that’s blamed.

It is their God-given right not to be ashamed.

Their verdicts offer no leniency.

I serve: expendable conveniency.

They’re fighting, and I’m paid to watch them fight,

Vile abundance has a place to sleep at night.