He liked the feel of nylon sheets
And lacy satin briefs
He resented them on his wife’s body
It had to be his skin and his motifs.
He tried through life to be
Inoffensive and remained sale incomplete
He didn't know how to love his wife
Once initial passion was replete.
No soul was ever told of his slinky longings
The shame would have all but killed him
So he lived with his guilty secret
And selling houses on the side.
But one snowy rural night
This pillar of community reposed
On the kitchen floor by an upturned chair
wreathed in rose pink lips, his life foreclosed.