He celebrates her domestic virtues

sprawled in his armchair;

he raises his mug of beer and chews.

She stands stirring a pot on the flame.

He celebrates, drink in hand,

as he turns on the soccer game.

She leaves the kitchen and throws another batch

of dirty socks and underwear in the washing machine.

He celebrates, at the edge of his chair to watch the match.

She goes out to the porch and begins

to hang up the towels, pillow cases, pants and shirts.

He celebrates by springing out of the chair when his team wins.

She walks into the room. Seeing him dance, the mug

still clutched in his hand, she wishes him a good night:

“I’m going to bed, honey, just watch that rug.”

He doesn’t hear. He’s busy celebrating.