I

How potent her illicit love…
she sits, waits at her desk, stares.
She remembers her promise to keep
or break, or deny ever having made.
She weighs her wanting.
There are no hours
like moments with him.
His name disrupts her heart
like no exertion can.
Not the forced climax with her spouse,
not the brief orgasmic release of
her own doings, the shower
beating on the curtain drowns her moans.
But a touch and All is faded memory
torn kites that cannot fly,
fire’s ashes that cannot warm.

II

but promises made are promises
and isn’t 45 late
to shatter contracts made at 20?
25 years with one man,
and yes, a good man,
at his best, appreciated,
at worst, tolerated.
(This the drab spectrum
of their feelings for each)
never the exhausting climb
to orange ecstasy.
never the cataclysmic plunge
to deep ice blue rage
he scrubs the dishes on his night
the rugs ARE vacuumed
he disrobes before his closet,
the white shirt, with one days wear,
hung, neatly, no need to iron later.
And (oh!) his houseplants,
Norfolk pines, spiders, jades…
He grows a jungle!
(and she? God!
Anything she touches, rots.)
And, really, after his fastidious undress,
a bit pouchy, yes…
but not folds over folds
and at 47, who isn’t
a bit more…
Ah…
Say…
stocky, yes, stocky,
then at 22?
And when at 22,
She at, 20! (20!!)
Wed, were there not
some
fires?

III

But, rushes to memory,
lovers lust
illusions of fidelity
thrust aside
revealing the raw rank reality
luxurious exhaustion on sweat soaked sheets