Corrine and Larrybob

Bed, San Francisco. August 2007.
Corrine was less than forthcoming about her extramarital activities
and who could blame her
doing it was one thing, talking about it quite another
that’s why Larrybob was forever loath to inquire
after his wife’s nocturnal whereabouts
he knew he risked a shot to the mouth
or a slap across his lightly bearded face just for asking
like for example the rain-soaked morning she arrived home
panties in one hand, flip flops in the other
you must be freezing, he said
having risen from a fitful slumber to answer the bell
mind yer own beeswax, she’d countered
sauntering to the shower, tracking mud down the hall
Larrybob for his part was civil and obedient
he’d never known a woman like this
she was a wild mystery and in the thrall of that mystery
he was gutless, putty in her hands his father used to say
Larrybob could no more protest her infidelities
than he could defend his own pathetic obsequiousness
he simply loved every inch of this woman and had long ago decided
that he would tolerate any abuse she might see fit
to rain down on his empty head
so long as he could daily inhale her divine scent
so long as he could sleep most nights at her side 

and so long as he could, 

in his dealings with the fair citizens of Farfetch, 

refer to her proudly as the queen of his kingdom

and the light of his life.