Two 30-Something, Married Women Have a Discussion in My Entryway

Give me a moment to decide

whether I should laugh in your face

since 32 is too old, you say, 

to smoke a cigarette on my porch  

with the 20-year-old boy

living in your house across the street, 

who pads around your kitchen 

in his boxers every morning.

Would my deployed husband 

approve of that cigarette, you ask?

Your jealousy radiates through your teeth. 

He’s a child to me, you can have him. 

I know you’re lonely with your husband away.

Shouldn’t we left-behind military wives

lean on each other?

But only one of us has a big blonde dude 

in her guest room with her husband away.

Perhaps don’t clamp so tightly. 

Don’t deny friends and freedom

to fill holes in your heart and household.

He’s a man to play horsey 

with your daughters.  

I understand. 

My boys starve for man attention. 

It’s just me and them in this house 

with my husband deployed. 

And now you’re in my living room, 

suggesting I want the houseboy you lust for.

You’re frustrated by what you can’t have:

his dick rocking between your folds. 

Your jealousy makes you ugly,

and he hates you, possessive bitch.

But he’s so young, Julie. I don’t want him.

He hung at my house for an hour today, 

earning twenty bucks playing cars with my kids.

He got some peace among my 

back-yard long pines, 

under the Georgia sky.

It’s about respect, woman.

I treat him like an adult, 

you smother him like a child.

But here you are in my living room, 

hands on hips, insinuating, 

hate seething through your teeth.

Give me a moment to decide 

what to say to you.

Get the fuck out of my house.