“Written with indelicate, impure
humor,” could be talking about
anyone, but it’s describing the
writing of me. Being indelicate
is my signature. I don’t know,
you tell me. Yesterday, on hands
and knees, cleaning up god knows
what at all hours of the day and
evening. I won’t say night because
I fell asleep at a decent hour. Isn’t
that something? But the reason for
this new trend is simple. I say good
bye to my love before he hits the hay
and am then compelled. To slip away
and dream that he is right here, snoring
much more silently than I, in this tiny
broken bed (which we’ll fix tomorrow!),
a pair of legs, one of them his and one
of them mine, without being overly
possessive, locked into an X at the knees.
