I screwed your wife Tuesday
when you were at Little League,
coaching third base,
watching your son bunt in
the game-tying run
in the sixth.
Heard all about it.
I can only imagine the vicarious thrill
you felt reverberating
rectum to spine to brain base
as it compares in extremity to the sensation
my news is causing now.
Really, you shouldn’t be leaving her so
alone, alonely.
When you schedule your life
to the quarter hour, affairs become
as simple to run as errands for groceries,
car washes, vet visits.
Ball Kyle 4:30-5:15pm.
Clean house 5:15-5:30pm.
Dinner 5:30-6pm…
Tell hubby that from 4:30-5:15pm
you were getting a pedicure.
Show off the toes you painted yourself
yesterday morning, that you told him about,
which won’t be an issue because
he won’t remember
he wasn’t listening
because he never does.
You even wriggled them in front of him.
“Sugargum pink never looked so fine.”
That’s what Kyle said this afternoon.
Affairs are necessary so that someone
pays attention to you.
Husbands, anymore,
are low-rent babysitters.
Is it odd that I’m adopting the viewpoint
of your wife to tell you
why you’re being cuckolded?
Does that say something strange about me?
Show my cowardice, as if I’m simply a messenger
with no direct responsibility for my bedroom bandying?
Or do I get such an earful from your wife
that I know exactly what she’d say,
how she’d sound? Because she 
won’t stop speaking,
because a silent world
would shred her sanity?
Am I looking for a sympathetic ear?
Don’t be a misogynist, Kyle.
That’s what she’d tell me about that, yes.
Misogyny is weak, Kyle.
I’ll keep it mind.
Tweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookEmail this to someone