For the Men who Inquire
You ask where my husband is,
the faceless man we must paint a face onto.
We must give him an occupation,
preferably no better than yours.
A starched ivory shirt, maybe I starched
and ironed the shirt (am I that kind of wife?),
beige slacks that hang loose around his crotch,
not too loose, his cock may be no larger than yours.
Black stones where the eyes are placed,
gaping holes for teeth, and of course a bald head,
A name? Shall we give him a name?
No, no name - The Husband will do.
Dear, you ask where my husband is,
shall I pull him from my pink purse,
tug my ear, carve him from the wall,
or maybe I’ll spread my pale legs and he’ll crawl out.