She appears at mealtimes,
sometimes with teabags,
sometimes without
wearing panties or bra.
I don’t know what they think
where she works.

Grand entrance pauses
she makes at my window,
before climbing from limb
to my bed.
She abhors doors
as the symbols of leaving.

She likes lace,
so I wear it quite often.
All hers,
but it blurs as we meet skin to skin.
I find I don’t mind,
‘least for now.

She leaves doilies when parting,
past pant painted hot afternoons.
Calls them runes
from her grandmother’s chest.
I think best that I leave them
where left.
Yes, more lace.

Her brother once called
just to see.
Was I real?
So I told him I didn’t exist.
Now the phone rings quite late,
‘time to time.
A new different sound
when there’s no one around
that is real.
She told me all this.

I made picnics on top of her
breasts,
but she won’t eat the ham,
and the mustard fell off,
the ants wouldn’t come
so we found other fun.
I converted into a canoe.

I once tried not being at home.
She entered not using a key.
She chose not to even see me,
raided the refrigerator,
left a doily,
and stole my heart.

Now the canapés are wet,
and my veil is soggy to the touch,
and the guests won’t close
the toilet seat.
I left it up.

06/10/2005

Posted on 06/11/2005
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers