A statuesque figure, her faux breasts
glinting in the sunlight,
she stood in the front room
for years by the Venetian blinds,
where sunlight warmed
like a cat at her feet.
She was the first person
I greeted coming home,
the last woman I said
good night to every night.
How I loved her pale, long legs.
Sometimes I’d carry her
to my hot tub, where I would lift
martini after martini
to Sinatra in the next room
crooning Strangers In The Night.
I drank. She listened
as I read aloud, never once
criticizing my poetry.
She was the perfect muse.
And practical. She collected laundry
I’d fling over her shoulders,
never complaining.
How could I complain?
She had mastered the art
of listening. On and on
I’d rant and sigh. Still,
did she once try to correct
my undue reasoning?
Or ask me to dress better?
She never wrote up
a to-do list for me.
What man can say that
of the woman he lives with?
Inevitably, sadly,
I took her for granted.
So, here we are again,
at a garage sale. Mine.
She lounges in the driveway
in a bathtub,
a glass of red wine
on the stand beside her.
I remember buying her
at a garage sale—adoring her
faux-stone beauty the moment
that I saw her.
Over time I’ve become obsessed
with her marred surface…
the chips, the discoloration,
Worse, the coldness
which exudes from her.
Why did she change?
I obsess now the way I did
before I divorced,
when I would have done
anything to shed myself
of a woman beautiful
but terribly flawed.
