This is What My Husband Did

Drove down the hill
on winding roads
in tiny starry hours,
warm wife left in bed
while he tended another woman,
came to her masked,
in pale green shirt and pants,
to soothe flesh, pull life,

saying, just a little while, and push
now, push. Forty years of babies, most living,
but not all, most perfect, but not all,
most wanted, but not all, one named for him.
Then he sutured, washed, changed,
said goodnight to the scrub nurse,

drove, frost on the windshield,
breath hanging in the air,
to let himself quietly
into the dark house and then to bed,
bringing with him cold hands,
and the smell of Betadyne,
rubber gloves and soap.

Laguna

Small town
of a smaller me,
now a changed tide,
a glass dolphin,
an Apple sign. Sidewalks
chewing-gummed
with walkabouts,
hordes of young spikes
with earrings
yuppie couples spa-ing
up and down the streets
looking for places
to curb their money.
No longer a small poem
that happens
to attract a few umbrellas
trendy has dominoed
its way downtown.