Emasculation
My wife loves football
loves watching her Patriots on TV,
loves it even more
when I score tickets
and we spend a Sunday afternoon
among the cacophonous avalanche
of raucous fans rumbling Gillette Stadium.
My wife loves football
so in the 4th quarter
of last week’s game
I gathered up the plates and glasses,
sponged off the tables,
scraped the old crackers and shrimp,
dried up vegetables and dip
into the trash,
and as I’m loading the dishwasher
I hear her sing out from
the TV room,
“You’re such a girl!”
fleeting figment of my imagination
I reach across the bed
in the night, shadows across
the ceiling mellow yet poised it seems,
and I’m so quiet,
careful, gentle, tentative,
so as not to wake her.
I touch her softly
on her warm shoulder and arm,
withdraw my hand again
like a turtle’s head
pulling back into its shell
after I realize, relieved, that yes,
she is real and still here
with me in bed,
and not merely a dream,
a fleeting figment of my imagination
which is, after all, all
that I deserve.
deuce coupe 