the poetry knook, the poetry of stephen m. james

Scribbling an idea about an affair with the pool boy

sitting by the window, upstairs, next to our bed,
she envisions him dragging her vigorously onto my favorite sheets,
the navy blue ones with maroon highlights.
She grins, remembering the time she short-sheeted me and we tried to sleep on the floor and we ended up in a pillow fight.

He’s sucking the film off the water, she writes
and collecting it inside a small container that reads “We Suck Pool Service.”
(sounds like a bad porn)?she jots in the margin.
moving between the shed and the house he disappears.
Where could he be?
Is he stepping up the stairs to the door that the husband carried her across when the house closed? (Is this clich?, Stephen?)?she continues imagining the rapture of a one-hour stand.
the film would remain:
when he leaves to pick his motherless child up from day-care,
that night when the husband (help!?need name!) would arrive home,
the next day when he (hubby) wants to dive in the pool.

The teenager knocks on the bedroom door.
She allows the wood pulp to soak up her fountain ink,
before she removes the tip,
love always, your wife?she scribbles and leaves the open journal on the bed for me.
“What was your question?” she asks.
“Ma’m, did you all request the steel or composite Multi-Cell Pressure Filtration System?”

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© 1993-2024 by Stephen M. James.