Behind closed doors, he bores me.
His frank, functional sensuality
lumbers across the too-big bed
like I am not Goldilocks, like I will
not leap up or eat up his lukewarm
porridge, not clutter up his cutlery.
Now knifing— Now forking—
His utility ululates me, strains me
of stupid, so what do I care: mouth
full, brain blunted, body a wrung
knee-sock on the chair-back. Wait.
My whole world smells of marinara
& strife. See me spread butter.
See me spread eagle. See me keep
pleasing this rubber republican dick.
He talks dirty in fleece, but I bleat:
Have some almonds & cream sherry
O yes cream sherry! He shushes &
solves for X. Big teddy bear! Eyes like
flat buttons sewn-on & so what?
When I put my finger to his stitches,
he’ll spill his Right Stuff on my runway,
touching secondary sex characteristics
like spots on some Twister mat:
right breast yellow, left testicle red,
another flick of the spinner? O sure.
In his Kingdom of Bore, how richly he bores me,
he bores me, he bores me!