When the wife is gone
The patio sits vacant
Covered in leaves
Whispering stories
Of laughter and family
As the wind rustles beneath

There’s creaking through the walls
Like old shoulders sighing
Stretching, bowing through the eaves
Bending, exhaling
These old walls
Waiting for relief

The dust sits calmly
Not a finger to touch or disturb
The dust’s fine sheath
Across the table where we’d sit
Laughing sharing our tea

Death is a cold monster
That replaces a soul with leaves
And gives no remembrance
But to let them rustle in the breeze

I wish I could measure
Our time spent together by
The tattoos on our skin
This one in Mexico…
This one in Chicago…
This one in Milwaukee…

And then we could be
Like that old couple I met in Idaho
That had been together for years
But never married
No wedding bands on their fingers
Just lovely, wrinkly bodies,
covered head to toe
In stick-and-poke tattoos

“On my back, you see”
The old woman said proudly
Raising her shirt to reveal
Black and blue jagged lines
Some straight, some curving, some fading
Swooping shapes across her backside.
And her flesh,
Starting to sag in her old age
Was a tattooed tapestry draped
Across her hunching and bowing shoulders.

“Eddie” she said, with eyes bright
“He did these himself”
“Just for me”
“Ain’t they fine?”
“You need someone else to do these, ya know?”
“Cuz ya sure can’t reach ya own back!”

Perhaps love is, simply enough
Never feeling too old
To put tattoos on your back
At the same time
Us, remembering, laughing:
This one was from Mexico…
This one was from Chicago…
This one was from Milwaukee…

“Love is a circus”
I’ve always said
A balancing, teetering
Teeter totter
When one’s feelings weigh too BIG
You launch your partner
Straight into space

Sometimes they come back
Sometimes they stay in space…

Can you blame them?

Intimacy is a bearded lady
And a customer that keeps paying for tickets
To come see her
They are enthralled
But soon they will get disenchanted by
The feminine scruff
And go see the lion tamer instead

Do you blame them?

Romance is a trapeze artist
Her sparkling limbs, pointed toes
But it’s just an act
A daring feat
A wild display
Which wows the crowd
And keeps them wanting more
And the trapeze artist keeps wanting to give more

Did it work?

I want to **** other people
Just once, I swear (maybe twice)
I want to see another ****
For God’s sake!
Yours gets old
It’s great, but it gets old

I want to feel a different feeling
This one’s gone stale
It “hmmmm’s” and “hawwwwwhhhh’s”
And meanders, slowly
Like sticky syrup
Over old grandma pancakes

I want to feel a fire
But not just in my crotch
(that would be weird)
but right in my soul!
Is the soul made of fire?
Heck, I don’t know!
But I’d like to find out

I still want you here, however
Because I love you more than
Life itself
And more than
All the stars
And you’re my best friend
Without whom, I would be
A lost dog, wandering
Eating garbage and
Howling at the moon

Do you want to try polyamory?

Outdoor couches adorn
Wrap around porch houses
Where old folks sit
In felted feathers and morning sweat
The street is a stage
To watch the world, unfurl before them

Abandoned houses with “stop work” plaques
Sit like ghost village shacks
Dangling electrical wires
Swinging like forest vines
In this concrete jungle

Nocturnal Co2 emissions
Mosquitoes on reconnaissance missions
To **** your jugular
To shed the blood of the covenant
Payback for the horrors in history
In the American South

This is Atlanta

An old woman hobbles
Down the craggily sidewalk
Long, gray dreads like Voodoo
“ali ali wei boomah!!!”
She hisses as you walk by
Leaving you wondering if she
Just placed a curse on your life
But you just keep walkin’ on

As if you weren’t cursed
As if each step
Each drop of sweat
Weren’t planning their revenge

This is Atlanta