…and where did you meet her? On
Scottish streets? In a chic bakery?
Did she La-Dee-Dah in silk
Her name is Wife. I know about her.
Past lovers speak of
treachery. They brought her in on
ropes twisted from her
French Scarves, tied her to their clumsy
They never replaced their belts…
or their shoes! Walking on old, worn soles.
Treading cautiously, as one step might
shred a shoe at its seams.
Each lover gave me permission to
remove their dirty
belt at night, doors holding off
Wives for the night.
Morning brought them back with vengeance. As belts
back on vacillating hips, claiming
an old Wife would
strike! Agitated clouds would roll in, graying their eyes.
A former storm taking them back
to when they met her.
And she will take you away, too. Back to
dirty streets of Scotland,
to poison you
with silk stockings.