1. You, Wife: A Slightly Bitter Note
You, wife, driving the sixty-three miles
From Natchez to Brookhaven,
For the daylight hours of my birthday.
Though separated three months,
You say you believe in remembering.
Called for a present suggestion.
Blanched as at the apartment I picked
When you left your mountains for Mississippi,
Yet, as then, sleeves rolled up,
You didn't waver when I said "Pussy!"
I sit out front in the early cool,
Sip coffee, glance over some poems.
It's going to be just like old times.
After, we'll probably lie about awhile,
Before we drift through the time left,
And though mildly clinging, part.
You breathing another air
Late this August night.
You fitting haltingly
Against another chest.
The hand silks up your back,
Loosing you hot and scented.
Still in lamplight,
A stranger getting first sight
Of your golden hair
Unfurled, high, full breasts.
And you, head back,
Proud of the reaction
You know even in the end
You yet evoke in me.