Dear Man Whose Marriage I Wrecked

If it’s any consolation, when your wife took me

in her mouth, I closed my eyes and pretended

I was a piece of wedding cake. I was the instigator,

bringing her flowers so often her co-workers

nicknamed me carnation hands. At night, I’d look

at the stars and slither my petals through her hair.

It was like we were on Mars–me staring over

her skull at one moon, her gazing at another.

What I’m really trying to say is I tumbled into her

arms like a thousand reluctant dominoes.

I mean, isn’t it odd–how you can buy a lap dance,

phone sex, or blowjob in a snap, but can’t

pay a person a dollar to just sit next to you

on a park bench and simply hold your hand?