Cold Confidence

You are the silly putty smashed
between my elbow and my
forearm, creating a sticky mold
of my distaste for your sour 
grapes.

You mumble a one-word phrase,
trying to seduce me into a 
sweeping surrender, but my broom
is missing a few pieces of straw
forbidding me to trip over your goofy 
grin and into your arms.

Upon opening the refrigerator door, 
I spy an empty Coke bottle
behind an overdue carton of milk.
"Honey did you drink my Coke," 
I ask in a voice that could entice
Pinocchio to come clean. 
I tap my fingers on the countertop
as you proclaim, "I'm a Pepsi man."
Red lipstick stains the bottle's rim,
but I don't recognize it as my own.

You question my reasons for throwing
you away with the cans of Coors strewn 
across my front yard - my answer came 
to you in a whisper as I slowly exhaled 
the stream of smoke suffocating my sanity.