She faulted him for his constancy.
A lunchbox of a man
thoughts and deeds, past and present,
separated in small rectangular spaces
meaty sandwich drippings prevented
from seeping, tainting slices of carrot
brown-tinged apples, the handful of crunchy
salty treats restrained in a separate plastic bag.
He thought he was honorable,
molding, deferring his need to hers
when their rhythms clashed, bringing wine fireside.
She wanted controlled mess,
– perhaps more control than mess –
to be the one for whom he’d ignore compartments
sprinkle a little bit of her everywhere
season her with desire and lust
without changing her essence,
a smorgasbord of insatiety.
There is no right size of a man’s
desire to please. Too little, he is a brute;
too much, he is obsequious. We trust neither
the one who harms by excess or lack.
Courtesy and honesty are returning, the language
of consent. May I have this dance?
May I kiss your hand?
May I mess up your life?
oh yea. I like this one a great deal.
Me too!