The woman across the street is incredibly sexy
but volatile, like a .45 revolver sitting on the coffee table—you don’t dare

grab it too quickly because there’s a danger
so unfamiliar you may not know how to handle

the power that exists inside. I’ve watched her toss baskets
of his clean clothes out the upstairs window, chunked

in ball-like accuracy, their washed passion exploding
on the lawn, handkerchiefs floating like rider-less parachutes,

shoes tumbling across the yard and into the street. 
Sometimes around midnight, I hear her screaming

at him. I know she has the answer(s) to everything
that seems wrong in any man’s life, but I like her a lot, a passionate

duality—nice as a stray cat, then a soft hiss and an explosion
like the Mont-Blanc that leveled Halifax, Nova Scotia in 1919.

He drinks too much, always telling me what he figures I don’t know
and borrows from my tool shed whatever he doesn’t feel like buying. 

It’s a law as constant as gravity: if he wants her,
he can’t have her, and if she wants him

to agree with her opinion, he’ll disagree
just to annoy her. I’ve seen the look

in his eyes—the next time she pitches his wardrobe
to the greens he’ll help her discover nature’s first law

then run out the house screaming, “She’s trying to fly again.
She’s trying to fly.  Take her away.”  The police will

report housework denying gravity. In all honesty,
she’s not the kind of girl I’m looking for,

but no matter how pleasant he tries to be,
I still want to bash him

in the head with a hammer, snatch
up his wife then call him on the phone

at two a.m., "Guess what? Super Hero Soup
and burnt toast!  I want to marry

Jenny Lou.” I wait an hour, let him ease back
into a comfortable R.E.M. position, then call again,

“Lard casserole with Grape Kool-Aid. I’ve tied
the house down with ropes.  The Paranoids

are after me.” Then as I look at her sitting in my leather chair
in a t-shirt and flowered panties, he yells,

“Just keep her!” and the phone slams in my ear.
Her legs are curled up to her chest as she sips a cup

of green herbal tea, her beautiful brown hair bouncing
off her shoulders, and in the background “Rocket 88”

by Jackie Brenston and His Delta Cats begins to tickle
her skin. The weather outside is calm

but a tuft of breeze, a wisp of air
slightly moves behind the curtains.