My wife likes a hot bath
What’s  odd about that?
That’s what I am wondering
Is it good to wonder?
Yes, because there’s only one bathroom and I am bursting
Go outside and do it there!
Don’t the police mind?
With Brexit, racism, anti-Semitism, robberies, murder and low pay?
Is that worse than peeing in your own garden?
Can’t you make your own mind up?
No, but I can make this  up
Well, don’t wet your pants
It’s alright, my wife washes them.
So that is why she looks so awful
No, she looked like that even before we met
You sound like Henry the Eighth.You should have asked for an exchange.
It’s too late now.We consummated it.
When?
In that little room by the Confessional.
At the Wedding?
So that’s what it was! Thanks so much.I thought we were living in sin
Sorry to disappoint you
We can have a honeymoon now.

And  so can all of us

My husband likes to sleep on the rug
Without you?
There’s only room for his mistress and her cat and him
Do you allow it?
The cat is bigger than me!
Are you sure it’s a cat?
It doesn’t speak English so I can’t ask it!

My wife has twisted feet
What  a  pity she’s not a chair
Why?
You can unscrew them and replace.
I tried to replace her but she got angry.
I meant the feet.
I wanted to replace her whole body.
That’s really horrible.
Yes, how did you know?
I saw her once having a bath on the roof!
Where were you?
I don’t know.I repressed it
Is it unconscious?
It is now!
So is it unconscious in English?
Well, it could be in Latin.
Why?
Because I say so!

My sister is never jealous of me.
She has nothing to be jealous about.
How about my eyes?
What’s  the use if you can’t see?
A good point.What’s that spider on your nose doing?
Making a thread  in the conversation
I’ve had enough.
I’m afraid it doesn’t speak English
But it might understand it!
You are very stupid.
Yes, my IQ is 55.Yet I learned English.
How?
Well, that’s my secret along with the first 200 numbers in pi.
Numbers in pie.Are you bonkers?
And so  say all of us

https://www.merriam-webster.com/word-of-the-day

Mary decided that she too, like many women, wanted a few new clothes for the winter.But she was too lazy to travel 10 miles to a large shop.Instead, she decided to look online.
Fascinating how to learn many clothes there are available.406 tops or T shirts.67 types of trousers,89 coats and 76 raincoats.How many of us wear raincoats when we have cars? Mary wondered.As she still rode a bike she did wear one.But her old one was fine.
See, Emile, she said to her cat, which Top shall I buy?Some have fancy sleeves with bell like cuffs.I like them.And look, red is back in fashion
Knowing you I’d only be waiting for the sleeve to dangle into some tomato soup, he answered cheekily.
A good point, she muttered.Some have short sleeves which may be ok if you work in a hot office but not when at home where we all try to save on heating bills.
I say, Emile, why are there so few wool coats and sweaters on sale?
Maybe the sheep have stopped growing new coats after being sheared!
Oh,dear, I hope that is not true as they will get frozen up on the moors.They will need coats too.I think it’s more likely that people will not save up and buy one good garment.They want a few new things after a week or two and they throw away the others.It is hard not to fall into this trap when you have 56  credit cards and a debit one tooI feel terribly worried.Shal I ring 999 and ask Dave what he thinks? Mary cried
He has no more idea than you, Emile said but some folk say we are heading for a crash again.So much for Austerity when people have to borrow money for food.
I’d rather have a cup of tea,said Mary.And so she did

Photo Mike Flemming copyright

This article is meant for teachers but it is so good I thought some other people might like to peruse it.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69588/the-start-writing-your-own-poem

Extract:

Practice of an art is more salutary than talk about it.
There is nothing more composing than composition.
—Robert Frost, from his notebooks[Poetry and Prose,
edited by Edward Connery Lathem and Lawrance Thompson
(Holt, 1972)]

Leaving a Loop

Two thousand miles from home, I open a drawer
and—I’d have sworn it was mine,
the weaving lumpy, my fingers
still all thumbs but they loved the peaceful
push pull, pushpull
so much that one summer
on the boathouse porch with the tree growing
right up through the floor
I made thirty-two
pot holders on the square-jawed metal loom,
stretching colors soft as old rags
soft as this pale buttercup
this faded-eye blue, and the green
fresh as light on maple wings,
seedlight. I wasn’t making gifts,
it was the rhythm of the thing
and the small loom, square and safe,
like the four lines of a child’s house.
I was homesick,
this was spiderwork, nestwork, easy
till you reached the part where
you unhooked your web from the frame.
Here, see the braided corners, on the last one
somehow you pulled the right thing through
to leave a loop for hanging.
I didn’t know I was making gifts
but last winter when my mother died
she still had two, there were stains
and a burn mark, I never thought
of someone’s hand feeling
heat through the weave.

Here is a poem neither your students nor mine have ever seen before. I wrote it last night, so it’s about as contemporary as you can get, short of sitting down right now and writing your own. To me it’s a living, breathing organism—not set in stone; tomorrow I could change it. An organism made of words, that each reader will bring to life in her own way. Emily Dickinson says, “A word is dead / When it is said, / Some say. / I say it just / Begins to live / That day.” (1)

Whatever my poem means to me, I couldn’t possibly reduce this meaning to a prose paragraph. I don’t want to say, “It’s about making pot holders when I was young and homesick at summer camp,” or “It’s really about my loss of my mother,” or “Actually, it’s about applied art versus fine art.” Or “It’s about the nature of home and separation.” I didn’t set out, at least consciously, to make a poem about any of this; I wanted to find out why seeing the pot holder when I opened a drawer gave me a sudden, inexplicable urge to write. Now that the poem’s written, and I’ve discovered some answers, I suppose I can say it’s all about these things.

But I’m much more interested in asking, “What does it say to you?”—you who are reading it, remember, as if your life depended on it, letting in your beliefs, your dreamlife, your physical sensations—and, I’d add to Adrienne Rich’s list, your memories and the mood you happen to be in just now . . . ?