Almost

My husband says the pork chops are not bad.
Does that mean they are good or just okay?
He says, not bad, not bad as if
that clears everything up.

Somewhere, a butcher splits
the carcass of a pig, slicing
flesh from bones. This after
stunning, slaughtering, scalding, scraping.

When I ask my husband
if my striped dress makes me look fat,
he looks me up-and-down and says,
it is what it is.

Somewhere, a seamstress feeds
fabric through a Singer.
The machine purrs and clicks
as the needle jerks up and down.

My husband tells me
he used to love me,
but not anymore. When did
you stop? He watches the clock.

Somewhere, a watchmaker
tinkers with a gear, then ear
to its metronome, hears the ticking
too fast—now, too slow.