Three-hundred years ago, I’d like to think you’d have been a courtesan.
I’d like to think I could have bought your affections,
your body, your lungs.
Think how quickly I’d have accelerated our romance.
Think how much more we’d have gotten done
if our passions were based on monetary transactions
instead of a glamorous ballet of household chores:
dinners, dishes, exercising the dog.
Never any time to exercise the cat.
You only love me when the house is immaculate
and the kid’s asleep, and the pets aren’t shitting the bed
—once a month at best and sometimes
when I’m out of town, which sounds dubious
when I think it out.
Say, who bought you those Manolo heels,
that Gucci dress? Who’d you have to screw
for that Channel bag?
I don’t want you to answer.
Just know this:
I’ll give you more:
diamonds, a Cadillac, a fox fur shawl.
Wrap it round your neck.
Strip everything else,
hop into bed.
This is the kind of relationship
I can get behind.
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