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Dave Bonta
Both my wife and I
have seen her gossiping
to her six silver spoons,
her past brought hot
and strange as a whore—
the story is true.
I don’t appreciate that language,
Don’t appreciate that tone,
As I utter numerous profanities,
As I scream and yell,
You must be more loyal,
Must be more honest,
As I exit the hotel with my mistress,
Having told my wife I was out of town,
You shouldn’t smoke or drink,
Addiction is for the weak,
Smoking my second pack of the day,
Two weeks removed from AA,
Gossip shows a lack of maturity,
It shows a lack of respect,
Did you hear about what’s his name?
How can he live with himself?
I was the milliner
Talked about, lied about,
Mother of Dora,
Whose strange disappearance
Was charged to her rearing.
My eye quick to beauty
Saw much beside ribbons
And buckles and feathers
And leghorns and felts,
To set off sweet faces,
And dark hair and gold.
One thing I will tell you
And one I will ask:
The stealers of husbands
Wear powder and trinkets,
And fashionable hats.
Storms have beaten on this point of land
And ships gone to wreck here
and the passers-by remember it
with talk on the deck at night
as they near it.
Fists have beaten on the face of this old prize-fighter
And his battles have held the sporting pages
and on the street they indicate him with their
right fore-finger as one who once wore
a championship belt.
A hundred stories have been published and a thousand
rumored
About why this tall dark man has divorced two beautiful
young women
And married a third who resembles the first two
and they shake their heads and say, " There he