Holding a bucket in one hand
and a plastic cuckoo in the other
is the closest thing I've come to bigamy.
This is how I covet the man
not my husband: I juxtapose his boots
with the way he unscrews
the porch light in the dark. Drizzle
falls a tampon: I want to be
his bathrobe, his shower curtain.
The rum in the gutter clatters
a prescription drug, a speech impediment.
I'm not any drier
from standing beside
this landscape set somewhere
in the Mississippi. I hear
a tree and tires crunching up
the fallen nuts on his driveway—
I have porcelain molars, too
fizzing in a plastic cup
and names for how I'd like to wash
his car, his plates,
his wife's back as she bends
over to fetch the soap
that has slipped from my grasp.
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