I have become too familiar with the moon,
the man thinks, as he studies her 2 a.m. ensemble.
The veil of violet is a provocative touch
and those sidelong glances through its hazy lace
stir feelings he had buried deep.
Her figure O body makes him want to kiss her,
if only his reach were longer. Size matters—
but just arm length. The sleeping shape
of his wife beside him offers nothing; he thinks
about using her as a ladder.
The man tries to pair his breath to his wife’s
but fails, flails, bails out of bed and down
to the bottles, first the infomercial cures
that promise relief, then the scotch,
likewise a con but it tastes better.
A catnap only that, his bladder hums,
and he treks yet again to the toilet. Relieved,
the water vessel slips sheet-wise into the guest bed,
the venue change his last attempt at victory.
Lemmings are counted until they scamper off a cliff.
Sighing, the man flips on a light and imagines
what would happen if he denied himself the moon,
and sought his wife instead. He pads to their bedroom
and watches her face as she sleeps. Like a ghost,
he slips noiselessly back to the guest room.
Alone in the dark with his book of thoughts,
he wanders through its pages wondering—
How wrecked will I be at the meeting tomorrow?
Is our therapy session this week or next? Are we
out of milk? What is a life when love is out of reach?
