Fred Aiken Writing

waiting outside in incomplete darkness,

for my wife to tell me to come back in,

what are you doing out there?

it’s time to go to bed,

or to watch a movie,

or to read a book,

which is when I realize that is what our code was back in college for coitus so no one knew what we were talking about,

and so I go back inside

to tell my wife, and to partially confess,

that she is a nerd and that’s okay

wasted gigabytes of data delayed in some made-up hole created out of memory foam

and rattlesnake skins that doesn’t feel comfortable, but at least looks damn fine,

describing destitute dilettantes and dalliances with foreign officials with

official titles in official looking clothing with attaches and, I dunno, some pen that shoots bubbles made of cyanide

while planning for a picnic in winter so they can have privacy,

while they share gossip about which chancellor or prime minister is hotter,

for love of country, for the love of God, please just don’t say my name

holistically confused by the entirety of moving parts

slapped together half-hazardly and called a day or night,

smacked pink by glints of future goo gone amok and stuck to some poor back meant to carry the weight of all that was tossed

into the river and expected to be forgotten,

and distilled into meandering meaning meant to look like fastidious flotsam

passing through the eye of a needle and back again,

but just so long as the place has heating, otherwise I’m out