What would it be like,
he thinks, green eyes
rising from the velvety
red book in his hand,
if my wife were really
in love with me?
His dark Byronic hair rushes
forward, as if blown by wind
sailing words off the page.
Three fingers grip the verses,
capturing the idea.
His absent gaze
ticks the moment when
the physical world fades;
he sees only his own thoughts
stirred by word, phrase,
rhyming couplet.
She would; no she wouldn’t.
But then, if she did,
we could do what she won’t
That might be quite pleasant,
even sublime. I think she will.
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