The Forecast Was For Sun No Clouds

"Do you love me?"
The water from the faucet
so hot it nearly burns him.

"Well, do you?"
Through the kitchen window
the clouds rush by like a movie
when you want to get
to the good part
or you wind back
because you couldn't hear
what they said.

"I love you," he says.
He's been scrubbing
the same dish,
drops it, shattering.
He hurriedly sweeps
the fragments
into a corner of the sink
to scoop up and throw
in the garbage,

blood drips on everything
from a cut to his hand.
He mutters, "I love you."