wife #3 (3)

lagging steps to the front door, and breathing welcomes into your ear
from the slip on your finger.  one third it’s size.  and shrinking down
every monday, tuesday, wednesday, friday, sunday (His day) until
somewhere along the wrinkles in your sheets and the knots in your pillow
(wet from kissing) it cracks off and there’s black there in your pen ink.
two girls have their hands on your thighs and are pressing squares on your belly,
covered eyes
in the discarded hair
you picked out
of your brush
in the noontime
when all you could
hear
was three sets of giggles
and you thought one of them
might be yours.
but there’s always that inch
between her fingers and
yours and her toes and
yours and the only skin
burning is
dinner.  made by you.
every night, with a spoonful
of apathy.