After rescuing my daughter’s beheaded
bobbing Barbie heads from the toilet’s
S-trap, Dave, the plumber, tells me he’s really

an artist. We sit at my kitchen table scarred
with glitter and science project stickers. He draws
my profile on a piece of notebook paper

with broken crayons. I emerge from the blues
and pinks—a dash of orange for my regrets.
I tell him I’m really a poet, not a housewife.

Hungry, I offer him sardines, the only food
left in my cupboard. He turns the key with
the skill of a surgeon. We are both
hit by the salty smell

Vicki Iorio is the author of the poetry collections Poems from the Dirty Couch, Local Gems Press (2013), Not Sorry, Alien Buddha Press (2020) and the chapbooks Send Me a Letter, dancinggirlpress (2015) Something Fishy, Finishing Line Press (2018), and Blabbermouth, Alien Buddha Press (2023). Her poetry has appeared in numerous print and on-line journals. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Poetry Prize. When Vicki is not writing poetry she is sweating on her Peloton and when she is not on her Peloton, she is drinking a crisp white wine.