Dusk and the Wife Poem By A. V. Christie
in with the child
who drops like a weighted lure,
flashes down, down to sleep.
The husband suburban, pulls up,
a bright folder called Taxes
in the coming dark (his young
coworker in Baja, her unfettered
surface away on vacation).
In the coming dark the grey
squirrel ripples across outside
So many leaves to the trees
this many this many.
What is it then?
He opens to the red head, her
sheer bra pulled down
lush strap hard pressed
to the fullest curve of her breast.
She slightly bites her lip
while the wife half a dream away
is pressed by his good friend
against a building. They could be
in Florence—all these angels.