Michael And Mary Poem by Whit Leyenberger

It was true, he owned a couple of pairs of handcuffs.
and she had a full length mirror at a precocious angle in her bedroom.
His mother thought his oral fixation phase was the problem from something she read.
She laughed at her gynecologist’s questions.
He sometimes hung around in bathrooms.
She really liked freckled men in cowboy boots.
He wore a discrete amount of eye makeup.
She had extravagant fantasies about all of her meaner coworkers
He had a near encyclopedic knowledge of the real names of adult film stars.
She had once had a prolonged conversation about Vaseline in a Walgreens at 3 am.
His hugs always ended a moment too soon
She was unknowingly on an NSA blacklist because of her Google habits.
He was often caught leering.
She owned more than a few Judy Garland costumes.
It was whispered that he spent altogether too much time at petting zoos.
She had spectacularly real breasts.
He had a way of speaking as if from a thousand miles away.
She’d had her collarbone broken by a man whose suggestion box was closed.
Strangely, they both had a number of similarly placed tattoos which had the pattern of awkwardly announcing themselves; causing questions which resulted in their smiles becoming open wounds tangling up a story about a crazy night in college.
She paid her taxes even though she was in debt.
He attended mass on Sundays and had a firm handshake.
She had never owned anything in shiny black leather.
He was an Eagle Scout (and very good with knots)
and neither would ever kiss and tell.
You could say they both had particular tastes,
you could say any number of small and jagged things.