Empty-nesting here in Acton, Massachusetts, with the last child off in college leaves me some time (between work and going to school myself) to finish about a thousand poems begun over the past couple years; also trying to get a real book of poems published, entitled “A Superlative Woman” (about my wife).

Dancing with my Wife

Even after being married to my wife,
to the same glorious woman for 32 years
I don’t like it when she dances
with other men. It’s not that she’s
out by herself or with the girls
dancing with other men, instead
she and I take lessons together at
an Arthur Murray Dance Studio where part
of the group lesson is for partners
to switch and dance with other people,
a good practice, hones your skills,
makes you realize what a crappy dancer
you really are. But no matter when
I see her fox-trotting
or swinging or doing the rumba
with another guy, particularly
the younger swift-moving more suave
and self-assured guys
I simply don’t like it.


She went to Montreal for a business
conference, a long weekend, two nights,
three days, so I could be a bachelor if I
wanted to be, go drinking with friends, if I
had any drinking friends, or to the movies
or off to shoot pool or even spend time
with a lady friend, if I had any lady
friends, that is. Instead I:
mowed the lawn,
took the dog for three walks,
ran the dishwasher,
did a load of laundry,
ran errands to the bank, post office, dry
cleaners, and read some magazines.
But mostly I worked on the book of poems
I’m putting together about my wife
entitled “A Superlative Woman.”
I’m pathetic, I know I am,
I’m absolutely pathetic.