What Holds Us Down

he watches old flicks on TV
she flicks ants off the picnic table
he thinks he’s one of the swells
she hates it when she swells with water weight

he’s good with bug spray
his realm is the garden
triggering the plants to grow

she’s good with olive oil spray
her realm of girdles and griddles
keeping the grittiness away

he relishes her hot dogs
with her homemade relishes
he pulls up his pants
saying no to crack
she can crack a joke
about being his ball and chain

their life is a refrain
that they claim everyday
in the singing

they both understand gravity
in their own way
she in her fertility and hertility
he in his humility and himility

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 65 at The Sunday Whirl.

I am currently on vacation and using free wifi at our hotel. I’m currently in Cockeysville, just north of Baltimore, Maryland.

I don’t know if I’ll make it online next Sunday, but thanks for stopping by. If you leave me a comment, I’ll return the favor. I’m still getting caught up visiting blogs from last week’s wordle poem. So, thank you for being patient.


Housewives don’t need househusbands around.
They want earners. Someone with balls.

They aren’t interested in eternity. Or next fall.
They’re worried about this afternoon’s trip to the market.

The sting of it all. The constant subtracting.
The buffer that has all but disappeared.

Nibbling the cantaloupe flesh all the way to the rind.
Steeping the tea bags for a second time.

It was just supposed to be a transition period.
But it has lasted months, nearly a year.

It’s not like she’s ignorant of unity.
But she spurns him. He can keep his drawers on.

This has been too much for worse, and not for better.
She’s not sure her fidelity can withstand this economy.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 64 at The Sunday Whirl. I also incorporated buffer, transition, and unity from Three Word Wednesday.

I’m about to leave California for two weeks to visit Ohio and Baltimore. I’m uncertain how much I’ll be online. I will have my laptop with me and my iPhone, but I make no promises about posting while I’m on vacation. I’ll be writing, of course, but may not be posting until I return. I hope all you wonderful people are having a good summer. Thanks for visiting my blog; I truly appreciate it.


The Model

She takes snapshots of herself,
practice for headshots,
sent wirelessly to her computer.

Here are her lips, so full,
so voluptuous, the men want
to touch and tongue them.

She takes care of her skin,
for this is the beauty
we see and pay for.

She keeps her body thin,
shielding herself from temptation,
yielding not to indulgence.

The clothes hanging on the racks
are just an act, a costume,
that she wears like a gesture.

She can stand and pose,
driving the men to utter distraction,
while she looks the other way.

She lips the words
to a Madonna song,
gesturing into his camera.

She thins the cocktail
the photographer made for her,
and sets it on the nightstand.

She acts coy, with a gentle touch,
utterly arousing him, and takes
naked snapshots of him.

She finds what is hanging
between his legs amusing,
so other and alien and frail.

If she wouldn’t be sent away
for it, she would skin him alive,
he disgusts her so.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 63 at The Sunday Whirl.