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.
you did CPR on the stereotype and revived her and put color on her rouged cheeks...ahhhh, she makes eye contact and smiles, and I smile, too, when reading your poem.
Angel, I don't know how I missed this poem, its one of your best. It has a strength, no, a power that surges through it constant. I think I knew one of these women once. Phillip
An excellent poem - again, I don't understand the low marks on your work. I truly enjoy reading your poetry. This is very good. Warmest regards and respect, CJ
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You've captured the essence of the subject very well, bar the subtle waft of complicity. Still, an excellent piece.