by Liz Teuber
therapist sitting in chair
paid for listening ear
imagine myself on his lap
anticipate affirmative tap
plumber enters stage left
certain his fingers are deft
cue dampness between my thighs
a place my husband finds dry
longing to be seen and heard
at home i get nary a word
desperate for any interaction, other
than him asking me ‘what’s for dinner?’
I shared a poem with a man I met on Tinder once
he sent me more than a dozen lines of his own work first
his read like an angsty love story
mine was cheeky
I told him I liked his work—I didn’t
he told me mine read like a recrimination—it was
we never met
by the end of our exchange he thought I was catfishing him—I wasn’t
he found himself very attractive—I didn’t
he scolded and negged me, so naturally I wanted to chat more
but I’m a pumpkin, not a catfish,
vanishing at the stroke of midnight
never to be heard from again
I had my piano tuned today;
which as I write it, sounds like a euphemism
but as I know, you know, is not.
You mentioned your wife played.
I wondered if you do as well.
You touched each key with such tender familiarity.
Stand in my living room—
will you ever touch me that way again?
Your hands grazing my soft skin, mirroring the delicacy
of your fingertips fondling the lacquered surface of the piano.
How I wish you would tickle the smooth instrument of my body,
the songs it would sing for you.