A Husband to his Wife
that you lick from your finger
every Sunday before church.
I wish you were brown bread I could sweeten.
You fell asleep upright last night
with To Kill A Mockingbird on your chest,
and wet, plum polish on your toes that stained our sheets—
a half-hearted labor on 600 thread count.
On Thursdays, I remember your thin legs
and taut skin, the taste of Barcelona, and
your mother’s cigarettes on my clothes.
I don’t miss them,
but they still sit in my head.
September will discover me
hunched over a hand painted table at
Paper Moon Diner,