My wife off entranced in the stores,
I sit on the waiting-husband bench,
reading my Iris Murdoch, five sentences
to one glimpse at the latest foragers
from the current plane of time:
young girls slicing with deft amusement
through waddling obstructions in garish shorts,
and all my pedestrian counterparts,
the androgynous, bent, bewildered and beyond.
A dead-eyed starer beside me, no book prop,
just listening to the unheard music playing on,
surfing the beige lake of tile,
breathing the plastic air as long as he can,
knowing now there's more days of breath for the money.
Now I get book ended with a yak man, all complicated
breathing and prologue, baggage of afflictions,
rotund Ancient Mariner in Florida paisley,
screwing his ass in for the long haul,
muddling my rhythm, as I rise to seek the Mrs.