the faithful wife

she wrote such sad tired poems
of futility
and her letters to me
were the same:   just
drifting yawns of
going on.

we exchanged letters for
some years.
I was mad and suicidal
and had nothing but
bad luck
with women
so I continued to write
thinking, well, maybe
this way
no ill will come of

one night
she was in town, she
phoned me:
“I’m at a meeting of
The Chaparral Poets of

“o.k.,” I said, “good

“I mean,” she asked,
“don’t you want to
see me?”

“oh, yeah…”

she told me she would be
waiting at a certain bar
in Pasadena…

I had half a glass of
whiskey, 2 cans of beer
set out…

I found the bar, went
there she was (she had
sent photos) the little
housewife giddy on
I sat down beside

“oh my god,” she said, “it’s you!
I just can’t believe it!”

I ordered a couple of drinks from
the barkeep.

she kissed me right there, tongue
and all, as she grabbed my

we had a couple more
then got into my car
with her
holding my cock
I drove the freeway
back to my place
where I sat her down
to whiskey with beer
she began talking about
but I got her back
to the bedroom anyhow
got her onto the bed
all stripped down
except for the
I had never seen
such a
beautiful body…

I began to slip the
panties off but she
said, “no, no, I can TELL
you’re very POTENT, you’ll make
me pregnant!”

“well,” I said, “what the

I rolled over and went to

the next morning
I drove her back to her
Chaparral Poets’

as the weeks and months
went on
her letters kept arriving.
I answered some, then

her letters kept arriving.
there wasn’t much news
but many photos: photos of
her children, photos of her;
there was one photo of her
sitting alone on a rock
by the shore.

the letters came less and
less, then stopped….

add some years
some women
many addresses–
a new letter found
the children were grown
and gone.
her husband had lost his
part of the business, his
partners had knifed
they were going to have to
sell the house.

I answered that

two or three weeks
her next letter said
that there is a divorce.
it’s final.
she enclosed a photo.
I didn’t know who she
172 pounds.   she said
she’d been living on
submarine sandwiches and
re-fried beans.
looking for a job.
never had a job.
she can only type
23 w.p.m.
she enclosed a small
chapbook of her poems
signed “Love…”

I should have fucked her that
long-ago night.
I should have been a

it would have been one good
night for each of us, especially
for me
stuck between suicide and
in bed with the beautiful
never a body like

now I don’t ever have
her letters.
there are nearly a hundred
of them
in some university

and this is
a sad tired poem of

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