By Chet Corey
I walk around the living room
subvocalizing — poem composing.
My wife enters, folded laundry
in her arms. “Talking to yourself,”
she says. “You’re a lonely woman,”
I say, “taken to hearing voices.”
“God knows when you’re lying,”
she says, and heads downstairs
to wash another soiled load,
and I’m left to listen for another line —
to hear that other voice,
the one she said she’d overheard.
Copyright 2019 Corey