The rug you pulled from under us
was quite the magic carpet,
for where I thought we stood upon the floor
there’s only air
and gravity’s a cosmic joke
they play on married women.

All the plates I haven’t thrown and smashed against the wall
could re-shingle my roof.

The Famous Writer in the Plastic Frame

he looks jaunty and slightly wicked
as he smolders
out of his low-resolution place of honor
next to the hand soap pump on the vanity

no doubt confusing the Christian woman
who cleans my house each month
and my daughter
who wonders who that man in the bathroom is

yet I’m pretending he’s my boyfriend
seems to satisfy her and she resumes building
Lincoln Log civilizations across the kitchen floor

I am not a stalker
though I fixate on his picture and imagine
having sex with him on top of the washing machine
at the summer house on Nantucket

an unexpected tryst en route to the backyard BBQ
raw steaks forgotten on the shelf next to the Dreft

he takes me despite propriety
and the actual difference in our heights

on the back of book jackets he is much taller

the other woman goes for a run

we had to step aside to let her pass
trapped, it seemed,
between where she shouldn’t be
and where she didn’t belong

trespassing in hostile territory
crossing lines painted in sand
an international incident
only narrowly avoided

foolish little diplomat
breaching protocols and practices
so clearly understood by those
already fluent in the language of fidelity

perhaps we’ll send in peacekeepers
to secure the borders
and observe the next election
(at least Jimmy Carter only lusted in his heart)