The fat girl,
all creamy folds
and strawberry flush,
mumbles luscious cunt poems
into the floor
at the monthly open mike.
I whisper spouseward:
now that's how to write
erotica; I need
to see her whole body of work.
My beloved nibbles rice cake,
squints, tilts her perfect coif,
concludes: she's just weird.
Later, out by the beemer,
impulse hits me
like a pies in the face:
leave with the fat girl
instead. Instead
I insert key, belt myself in,
and head for home.
It's weird, but strawberry cream
dribbles down my chin.
To know what your wife
does online: check out
her components.
Her tight space
accomodates
a tower. Cable
chokes the base
of her plasma screen
like a collar.
Vellum snugs
the crack
of her printer.
She mounts woofers
before a mirror
and the O
on her keyboard
is pierced.
Mitchell Metz has had poetry published in a number of publications including Devil Blossoms, Mangrove, Crab Creek Review, The William and Mary Review, and Southern Poetry Review.