Stupidity, A Sonnet

She allowed you in, feigning disappointment,
Guarding the privacy she earned,
And although love was never the intent,
You knew what it was—after she was burned.
When you are dying, how can it matter,
The judgments and whispers of the wronged?
You felt wrong enough, stepping through the water,
But here, in deep, without fear, you belonged.
There was plenty of time to admire the lush décor,
Quiet couch and pillow, each surface clean.
Now you know what her privacy is for,
And why her kiss is both fat and lean.
Reduced to smoke by rich wives’ warm beds!
And their husbands’ hair still thick on the tops of their heads!

1 Comment

  1. noochinator said,

    June 7, 2015 at 2:21 pm

    “Smoking in Bed” by Billy Bob Thornton

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