the conquistador

it's wrong he loves his wife he does
he knows that this is craziness
it's like somebody else is there
inside his head and driving this

and headed to that shape that scent
that feeling blending conjuring
all mixed with the illusion that
it's him doing

the conquering 

the how in starting

he asked her if she'd go with him
for what was a night of elegance
with nothing inappropriate
conveyed by either word or glance

so they were there as colleagues
zero shown or done or evidenced
but oh the food and drink were good
and much indulged and somehow sensed

the car a sudden kiss and she
no longer cared of right or wrong
or anything except to feel
among within this she belonged

to his hotel to hours spent
from what was maybe innocent
to fire spread with such dispatch
that all it took was just one


Nothing Like She Was

AFTER the moment spent 
 the arching back
 the long release
 she sees

NOTHING but an empty void
 a reasonless
 and clamoring anxiety

 but this

IS LIKE other addictions, in
 its heinousness
 and fated-ness

 oh that

SHE WAS that other girl
 that happy girl
 she used to be

a mistress

it seems he has a mistress
he never thought he would
he meant to live in honor and
be loyal and do good

it seems he has a mistress
and each new thing is tried
to show not that he's aging
but that he hasn't died

it seems he's like the others, they say
decent men are rare
the question though that some might ask
is why the hell

she's there

Just Because

She didn’t love him anymore.
So she’d found someone else instead:
They’d text each other through the day
Or find some stolen time in bed.

She never told her husband, since
She didn’t mean to cause him pain;
He was her friend, and as a father
He’d done little to complain

About. But that was all aside;
She had a lover, that was life–
And who am I to judge her, just
Because she used to be
My wife