My husband is at the gym,
buffing his body, tightening
abs, pumping biceps, sweating
and grunting with other men
who are beginning to wonder
if they can discretely color their hair.
In his wallet he carries a picture
of a long haired girl with a full lower lip,
eyes that tease, top blouse button undone,
showing nothing but a promise.
She is the love of his life, this child
not even twenty. He swears
she is a sensitive poet, misunderstood,
mistreated by the men in her life.
He will be the one to save her, so he says.
As if she needs saving. I try to tell him
she's not what he thinks.
She can take care of herself.
He would not like her much, if he knew her.
She is not what he needs, this free spirit
who would only spurn his kindness.
But he is a stubborn man, who laughs
at my protests, pats my rump and sighs,
"I still wish I had known you then."
