Not his fault that midtown traffic
comes across as war to his wife
on the other end of his mobile call.
Yesterday it was the damn wind
that scattered their talk,
so he texted he’d be late.
And how his other woman hates
when he does dishes on a call—
the clash of silverware, she gripes,
shrieks in her ears like braking subways.
En-route he’s got both women in his palm,
facile at thumbing excuses.
He puts his lover on hold to tap home
for the grocery list, and when he switches
back, the cool sax behind her in the bar
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