Friday Night Wrestling

SHE:
Who calls the shots?
Do you own me?
Do I own you?

HE:
We've got it all, baby!
Microwaved gourmet meals,
wine from a kit,
Dr. Phil and Fear Factor,
soaps and sportscasts,
two TVs.

SHE:
Wake up!
We’re going nowhere
in our dollhouse,
bobbing
on waves of mediocrity,
fogged with the stench
of rotting dreams.

HE:
So what did you expect?

SHE:
I hoped for Superman,
not Ken.

HE:
You wanted Superman?
You're not exactly Lois Lane, you know.

SHE:
That's it! No more.
I'd rather drown
than suffocate.

HE:
Are you so sure?
For every willing Ken,
there's Barbies galore
lined up waiting . . .

SHE:
Deep breath.
Plunge.
Clean break.
Not even a ripple.

HE:
Who's next?
Step right up!
The show must go on.