My husband goes to movies
on the inside of his forehead,
where he’s a spy in fancy suits.
Gorgeous girls admire his abs
and other things about him
I’ve stopped noticing.
They don’t remind him that
the jumbo buttered popcorn turns to plaque
or that he shouldn’t drive the get-away
so fast around the curves —
they’re in it for the moment’s heat,
not a true-blue, long-term story line.
I’d like to buy a ticket for myself
to watch him chase the villain,
foil the thief, save the universe
from evil with a rakish grin.
I’d even sit through love scenes,
buxom women scraping breasts
across his freckled belly,
which looks flatter in the dark.
I’d try not to be jealous
of how hungrily they kiss him,
or how when he looks in their eyes
he makes them feel they’re beautiful,
even if they’re not.
