I am the middle-of-the-week wife.
The back-door sneak.
I wake the next-door neighbors
who wonder at who arrives so late,
departs so early.
Who yearn to know
the luxury of love delivered.
Love that comes and goes
without the ache,
without the labor.
It is a good life.
I would not trade it
for another wife’s.
I who am the topic
of the Wednesday-morning chatter.
Who in her lone society
politely sips the breakfast given her.
Correctly travels with a toothbrush,
her own comb. Says thank you,
please, goodbye, and runs along.