straight, black hair
fanned out over her shoulders;
I’m taken by her creamy skin,
the cheerful way she talks;
musical, like a philharmonic
playing versions from the charts.
She’s just dropped her baby off at the crèche;
the one up the hill from my house.
We’re chatting about the spring
flowers in the front garden,
how the traffic on the main road
has got so busy we need a crossing,
when I wonder if she’d like
a cup of tea, a joint.
We listen to Steve Miller and America,
fool around on the floor,
fool around some more,
then it’s time to get on.
When my wife gets back
– knowing she doesn’t know
– keeps me going for another day.
[not confessional – made up ;)]