Housemate

Even if I could help myself
 arguing every inch of the case
 for why I should be allowed
 to wear boxers
 and nothing else
 on the weekends,
 because every day
 I wear pants and a belt
 is another day I've compromised my soul
 and diluted what faith I have left in
 mankind's ability
 to coexist with nature
 while looking for that little extra
 centimeter of a twitch of your lip
 that tells me you're upset

 because I beat you
 to the seat on the good half of the couch
 with the armrest that still had
 threads on it
 while you were busy
 getting dressed

 and nothing else,
I don't think I would.

Even if I could help myself
 plucking your drawers
 from the dresser and
 shuffling their positions
 like playing cards
 before you get home
I don't think I would.

Even if I could help myself
 eating the rest of the 24
 ounce chocolate bar
 while you sleep like a rock
 so you won't have to
 look at it in the morning
I don't think I would.

Even if I could help myself
 buzzing and hissing
 like a tea kettle brewing guffaws
 on top of the flames
 of your florid cheeked
 closed fisted, lemon lipped, rage
I don't think I would.

Even if I could help myself
 collecting get well cards
 on the cork board in my cube
 because I faked dysentery
 on your birthday
 to get that coincident day off
I don't think I would.

Even if I could help myself
 standing at the corner
 of 8th and Sagenaw,
 checking my empty messaging inbox
 on my cellphone after you wave
 goodnight and head for
 the cab you called when we finished
 splitting a beer and cocktail tab
 waiting for that little extra
 backward glance
 through the night light
 obscured rear window
 that tells me you might have
 held my hand
 if this was a date
I don't think I would.