You are the perfect woman,
remaining constant, unworn,
expecting only the occasional bath
(which I am more than happy to provide).
On birthdays and valentines
and two week anniversaries
you never expect dinner, flowers,
a card that says so little and costs
far too much. You never call me
and for hours drone on about
your mother�s kitchen wallpaper
or the work-people who steal pens.
In the evenings you never argue
for chicken cacciatore or marinated
filet mignon. I never have to worry
if you say nothing, something is wrong.
On my way home from work, you�re there,
when I need you, lying perfectly
between my hands as other drivers
stare and wink and accelerate to exits
to buy you open-toe shoes, a new red dress.