He loves her morning bustle round the house:
her dogged, daily war on dirt and mess,
in which he lends a less committed hand.
But he hates her when she looks at him
disdainfully, because his clothes are shabby,
or his shoes are getting old.
He loves her when she wriggles near at night:
he loves the warmth that flows between them,
through skin and flesh and bone.
But how he hates her when she turns away,
deliberately rejecting love - as if
her life were full of more important things.
He loves and hates and hates and loves her:
an alternating current is at work.
When hate's in charge, he simply waits
till love returns...
Robert Melliard
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-alternating-current/
