PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I'm surprised to see my husband here,

though he couldn't see it on my face.

Instead I ask him in my sweetest voice,

"What are you doing here at my place?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he says,

"We have dinner reservations. So let's go."

I reply, "I can't I have a client coming over."

He says, "Not anymore. Did you think I didn't know?"

So apparently he knew and is okay

with the fact that I pleasure other men.

Because all the cash that I bring pays bills

that is more than his job and its meager paycheck can.

I'm looking at him wearily

not sure of what else he's come here to do.

"Don't worry I won't snitch," he says,

"I won't tell the cops. I don't care who you screw."

That's my "loving" husband for you

not even compassionate, He's simply weak.

My palm constantly twitches for my old pistol

each time he starts to speak.

I have a lot of money, and could have left him long ago,

but sadly it is him that covers for me.

Which is the only reason I'm not on the precinct radar

which is where I probably should be.

"Hurry up darling love, please," he says

"We don't want to be late meeting the McCullens."

Now I finally remember who we're supposed to meet.

His dull and very "saint-like" friends.

More than ever I wish I was sick

just so that I wouldn't have to go.

But he can always tell when I'm lying

so I'm sure that he would know.

 Next thing I know we're out side in his work car

as the siren turns on over our heads

and then he's speeding through miles of traffic

as if he wants us both to be dead.

Then his car phone goes off suddenly,

letting him know that his partner is calling again.

She somehow flirtatiously says, "We're going to need

you and your wife down at the station.... Officer Hawkins."