There’s a girl—and I say girl—not a woman, but a girl—
who is at the gym. And she is a girl because she’s around
my age. If she was the one writing this, I would be a boy,
but I’m not even going to entertain the thought.
You see, I’m not allowed to like her
because I’m married.
In fact, I can’t really say that I do like her,
for we’ve never spoken.
But I like how she looks,
which I’m ashamed to admit,
because I’m still married,
even after all these lines.
Were I to approach her one afternoon,
I think she would let me down kindly:
her saintly eyes might smile with amusement,
flattered, her pale chest might even blush,
but I know for certain she would withhold any disgust,
as she wrapped me like a newborn in the #1 Dad shirt I was wearing,
walked me back to where I was before I bothered her,
and lowered me gently, like only a woman can,
onto the soft, yet adhesive mat of a treadmill
located a ways behind hers,
where I can resume my ogling
from the comfy confines of my crib,
which offers a slivery jailhouse view—
a promise that will never break,
nor come true.
