Tonight my wife fucks Bruce Springsteen

by Michael Mark

I hope there's a soft summer rain falling
when the Boss gets on top of her.

And earlier, when he picks her up outside our house,
I hope he’s got his sleek machine.

I hope they pull over to some roadside bar and
have a few beers and

Bruce recites some Jersey to her.

He takes out his worn, torn leather book
that's formed to his rock hard ass and
coughs a boyish, proud laugh,
as he leans over the carved up
table to whisper lyrics he hasn't shared
with any E-Street Band member. Not Landau
or Patti.

He dances her by the pool table
and presses her into the shadows and
finds a tender spot and
sighs how every night he prays to Clarence.

She bites his lip, sucks on it, kisses his neck
and tells him she knows Clarence hears him.

Then they ride slow along the river
to the edge of town,
and take a stab at romance.

She deserves it.
She's been a good companion
for over 34 years,
from Queens to Boston to California
2 kids, 4 jobs, surgeries.

Behind the locked door,
I hope she feels comfortable
enough to keep the lights on,
to study him taking off his shirt, the bones of his back,
then his boots and his jeans.

I hope there's refusal and then surrender.
Then thunder.

She will walk back into our house
in morning’s light, down the hallway,
to dress for work.

She will know what’s flesh
and what’s fantasy.