-for Klyne

Arbitrary people
(Women more so than men.
Go figure.)
-At gas pumps, at sushi bars-
Ones she's never met
Momentarily stop their lives
To inform her
She's beautiful.
And yes, it's happening
This time 
It's some Achillean
Landscaper whose weak spot 
Happens to be
Women indifferent to whether 
He exists or not.
My wife
Fits the bill.
I take from her
Hands and arms and elbows
Bags loaded with groceries,
Hustle her inside, then
Shut and bolt the door. You say
The man-me,
Not the landscaper-
Is overreacting. But you
Haven't seen.


Here's what I mean.
Backstage passes,
Right after we jumped the broom,
A Lenny Kravitz concert,
A throng of hoochies
And my wife, homegrown
-Jeans, no makeup-
Said she couldn't be
Doing the whole
Gussied-up shebang
Just to get some
Brew and bass and fret.
In the mean, in-between
I'm serving time
Jockeying for an autograph
(Ostensibly for her) while
She's holding up the wall.
Her bored eyes watch
An army of black ants
-Roadies and groupies-
Carry away her picnic.
Finally, I'm at the front of the line.
Lenny drawls, "Who to, man?"
I say, "My wife,
(Blasé-blasé, what's her face),
The Black Girl, over there."
I gesture in her direction.
He glances over
His eyelids close halfway,
Focus. And he's
Gone, off
Making straight for my wife.
By the time
The conversation is over
Forever has come and gone. I discover
We've (meaning she's)
Been invited to supper with
The backup singers and the band.


I can hear you already
Saying, This
You call a problem?
Having a beautiful wife
Who loves you.

Maybe not, maybe so.
The complexities of witnessing
A personable woman
Are manifold. Simply put:
The jury's still out,
I'll let you know.