Men Don'T Marry Strippers For The Conversation Poem by Ted Sheridan

She hears dead people speaking to her in her dreams and she asks
them to tell her about living and how to cope. As if they would know.
See her in the morning with her teeth out, before the glue goes on
and she smiles her fake smile; the one with the perfect white porcelains.
She likes her coffee black and with only one sugar; two when she drinks tea.
It helps keep her regular and her bowels functional. Life is so much constipation.
See her husband; he likes to sleep in late and then masturbate to images of her
as the girl he met when they were both so much younger than their dreams.
He talks mainly to himself; keeps muttering the same things like
“So much of life is garbage; Sweetie, keep that can of beans.”
She lays his eggs and bacon out, just like his underwear; he is easily confused.
He needs his day mapped out for him, so he always knows where he is
and what pills to take before he loses his polar caps and freeze frames everything.
She hears dead people speaking to her in her dreams and she keeps forgetting
to ask them their names. So much of life is garbage and she needs to feel needed.
She’s a good woman for putting up with him and his over active libido. He keeps
muttering something to the effect; he likes her better when her teeth aren’t in…

2008 © T Sheridan