Letters underneath the bed

Run your fingers down her hips, 

plant a kiss upon her lips; 

for the glamour of tonight
should be sought before
it comes right out of sight —
when you come back to racour
within your house’s door.

Letters underneath the bed,
gifts that came just from a “friend”;
your wife smells never-smelt perfume
she knows she never bought:
“Lady, don’t you dare assume
there's some girl I’ve recent got,
for I’d rather than that rot.”

Sleeping in your love’s abode,
the one that is your favored home:
handsome is she when she sleeps —
her beauty makes you almost cry —
but you recall what both you keep
from your wives’ prying eyes:
a full-of-shame disguise.

Dawn raises its morning feathers;
your wife has surely found the letter.
Your life just falls apart —
what else is there to do
than excavate your heart?
Soon all know that it’s true —
you know that that’s your cue.

You call your love to come —
your wife has left the home.
“My life has gone to waste
I’m sure that yours has, too.
So why not we make haste
to elope, me and you,
to a land beyond the moon?”

She without a hunch agreed:
you were to do a final deed,
for both your times had come
to make a last return
to the universal home —
in coffin or in urn,
and buried, perhaps burned.

She prepared for you the gun;
“A word — before I come undone —
to this ruthless, pious earth:
I’ll be a great deal better off
with my love of greatest worth.”
Without either a flinch or cough
her head completely blasted off.

Soon were you to follow suit —
in your head the shotgun shoot —
and soon were you to die.
She gladly led you down to Hell
where the both of you could fly.
The bullets seemed to serve you well,
and neither of your wives can tell.