is woman joined to man,
stuck like a sluttish Siamese twin
to a suit
who moves freely through the world
as if this body were not dragging
like tin cans behind him.
She makes a pretty jangle
on his wrist,
hangs unnoticeably
in the kitchen, a slow simmer seeping
from the hot stove.
He touches her with potholders
and the smolder of love,
a married man, yes, husbanding
his libido for later,
other whores
to score in the dark where
spouses do not slip in
to the room where
secrets are born like babies.
The secret is this:
He is free, a solo seagull stealing
a ride from the wind, a good time.
Not arbitrarily welded to the
wife, old lady, nagging shrew
who once wooed him into
wanting to stand
not next to
but only slightly in front of her,
who promised to have and to hold
or at least roll between his fingers
once in a while like a smooth
brown pebble in his pocket.
(c)Corey Nixon
published in Skipping Stones 2007
Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA
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