Inner Sentry of Affinity
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?