as a mother folds her baby to sleep,
tender warmth seeping into the blankets, the sheets,
the father tugs his brain back to monogamy, the deep

creases in his forehead pooling drops of heat
and exasperation. the hotel room hung heavy on his hips,
the breathe of his mistress, hot, rough, sweeter

than what his wife provided. the lips
of an expert tugging down his sides,
his boxer briefs. he stands, head rush, rushing grip

on the living room chair, his perch, where this ride
of lies and stained collars began. the way her eyes
burned into his, the arguing, the way the mistress rode the tide,

sizzled the stress from his pores with one hitch. high,
the both of them, on lust and powders, they screamed,
the climax of their night and his life. the lie

he would hold against his groin, the seductress, the dream,
on nights alone with his wife when their skin
would grind, gleam, he unaware of the scheme

his lover prepared. his family found, outted, the mandarin
man with his heroin kiss silencing the mistress of the harlequin grin.


terza rima