Married Life
Husband in gray flannel suit reclines
in his chair and smokes.
Behind him, a bowl of ripe pears
a stack of stout books,
a water glass sit on his desk.
At his side his wife
nude, draped on a red velvet chair. Eyes closed, her left hand
twirls her golden hair in a curl,
as she shapes a wish.
Her right hand rests on his arm each finger firmly.
In his lap rests the newspaper.
In his hand, a rib?
(Is this the modern day Adam?)
A thick slice of bread?
(He is French.) Perhaps a crudely
rendered pipe. His eyes
are vacant, gaze at the gray smoke
his lungs and mouth create
there, suspended in front of him
not at his wife, this
woman made of arcs and desire,
at his side, on fire.
Married Life, continued
She will leave
Him, the room.
She will dress
find shoes &
hat, all black.
She'll wander
avenues
search for sun
and windows
delicious
enough to eat,
the scorching
smell of smoke
entangled
in her hair.
