Christine Lowther is the author of A Cabin in Clayoquot (memoir) and New Power (a lost childhood in poetry). She continues in her aspirations toward sanity by spending plenty of time at her floating home in God's Pocket.

Monday's Poem © Christine Lowther, 2004 In Review I have made note of the fact that while cleaning toilets all day for a living you choose not to wear gloves I picture you at work, sweating taking a break to eat rank eggs and tinned sardines food stains down the front of your shirt you often tell me how regularly you masturbate I have looked the other way while you picked your feet on my couch you always belch with gusto fart with force snore to wake the dead violently sneeze on the spoon with which you are stirring my dinner you had gained weight upon your return from the treatment centre I noticed the empty ice cream cartons strewn around your trailer and now you've moved deep into the bush where there's no running water so you can't shower but sit outside your shack chain smoking cigarettes through stained teeth I try to imagine you in relationship with a teenager; what did you talk about? How were you different? you're getting old, guarding your lair with snarls like some scarred bear, stiff but still ready for a fight I want to be making love with you as soon and as often as possible