by Nathan Hoks

 

 

A pipe is a kind of person, said my wife

As she cut into her pork cutlet,

But I was distracted by the sound of water

And thus unable to consider persons

In the abstract. She continued to talk

But seemed addicted to an invisible

And cold pocket. I thought

She addressed someone more specific

Than myself, a tall bearded man whose

Presence was intoned in her nasal cavity.

He stood there, a sentry who peers

Down the parapet at the silky moat

Which compels him to loosen his belt buckle

Catching at the moon’s reflection.

The man-shaped sparkle only lasts a minute

The kale is crisp and salty.

Can I wipe my hands on your dress?