Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                         Page 22
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POEM FOR BETTE

Coltrane plays on the radio.
You sashay around in your
signature bathrobe.

I don’t drink red wine
into oblivion.
You cook asparagus
on the ancient stove.

Though nothing is perfect,
I am actually content.

As if I had to find myself
before I found others.

As if I had to travel to the mountain
and then come back
to the valley
again.

As if the clichés were true,
but with a very odd twist to them;
either the hero and heroine find each other,
only they are both men,

or else the dragon is slain
by journeying to his cave
in the Lower East Side of New York City
and so it is they find their edge.

As if after a long and winding road
I discover you are
my sun and my moon
and my everything.

Not that I tell you that
all that much.

Not that you would know it
when we go shopping
the way I moan
and kvetch.

After dinner,
we walk around the block.

The moon rises in the sky,
yellow and dappled.

“It looks like a cashew,
the way it hangs in the sky,”
you suddenly tell me,
apropos of nothing
-- and everything.

“Yes, yes,
it does,” I say.

In between yesterday’s tangle
with housework and tomorrow’s
scramble for a living,
we behold it together.

I wouldn’t have
noticed it.

I reach out
to hold your hand --.
as if all those wild,
crazy promises

sworn in delight,
in the heat of a night,
penis inside you,
hand on your breast,

I actually meant.

  Chris Butters