Free Write, Week 11

Formal Love   (revised)

Husband says, Marg, I think we need to talk about our affection.
Wife says, We sure do, my bunny isn't energized and we're out of groceries.  
Marriage would be stomach-sick
off of the mind's trampish heaving

desires: those of humping the bag
boy between Publix's tightly-packaged

produce section and lobsters, of mind
fucking Mr. Square Rimmed poetry

junkie right in the denim-worn worm
hole below his brass belt buckle. Formal

consummation never asks, "Who
shot farther today, the espresso

grinder on 34th or your new cubicle
mate?"  Don't judge too prudently

now— remember make-up test

morning, with hot for teacher

squils lipping off Italian

phrases, while your eyes roll

back, head titles, and you start

to muse… another A in Spanish.

 Really— hot July never lips dew off
freshly-budding tulips, nor blisters

about the stains you left on top
the flat paneled wood-oak swivel

chair in office 124. Fantasies come

and go: as quick, as multiplied as orgasms.