Dear Ann Landers,
handle your column in The Washington Post. Recently I ran across a wonderful poem by Herbert Scott in a book called Disguises (University of Pittsburgh Press). I hope you will print it.

Dear Ann, I think I am losing my husband. He never straps me to the bed anymore, or fiddles with my parts. I haven’t had a charge in weeks. Sometimes I think he wants to do me in. There were intimations of this last week, when I found water in my oil can. Am I going crazy? I have faulty wiring and poor compression, yet he won’t fix anything around my body. Lately, strange arms appeared beneath the couch, and a leg under the table, and teeth in my teacup. I began to put things together. And finally, last night, he robbed the grave of that little tramp who died down the street. Should I sever connections? I would like to make this marriage work. But where have I failed? I try to keep neat. Heaven knows, it’s difficult with no help in the kitchen, and nothing to wear, and vapor lock to contend with. I think I am pregnant, and he won’t pay the bills.' What will I do when they turn off the lights? AH LAN D E KS Not all relationships are meant to be, and when that's the case, divorce may be inevitable. I didn't always feel this way. Here's what I wrote back in 1960. In retrospect, I find it incredible that I printed what follows,