Bea is a woman and

I mean WOH-man

with curves aplenty,

with vast pants and

vast plans.

Her kitchen floor

is cleaned by me,

thanks be to a check

where she writes my name

down, still misspelled.

Down the shelves,

dust bunnies hop into cloth

suiciding at the smell of lemon:

Bea, I pledge to keep

your books to shine.

Evident she reads:

I spell out down the line

with titles like

Sensual Massage and

matching CD, Understanding

Your Fibromyalgia,

Understanding

God, My Name is Red,

Three by Annie,

every poem Collins wrote,

people he read,

dead people, sick people.

When we first began

she told me, Once a month,

she dates someone,

sheepishly.

Through the internet.

Come later this Sunday.

Chris and I like to sleep in

on Sundays.

Her back door unlocked

I make sure to knock

in case they are naked,

full and waking.

This morning her man

walked out without,

de-shirted, left tiny hairs

on the bathtub tiles, and

her laugh was round.