The women who steal married men are all named Diane
or Kathy. They wake up in the night in Baby Dolls,
sexy and steamy beneath acetate sheets,
thinking of hot tubs.

It is always smoky where they work.
Under cashmere sweaters, their nipples
appear erect. They wear tight jeans because
vaginitis doesn't mean anything to them.

On their nails, little hearts.
When they walk, the scent of perfume.
When the wind blows, hair not moving,
hairspray clinging to oversprayed whisps.
Big hair rules sex toys.

It is the night that moves them.
They take the lead, and draw in
what they need to take. Survival, they say.

The women who steal husbands say
they aren't bad people, the smell of stale perfume
more like smoke than roses.