I don't need to ask anymore
when my wife takes the cordless phone upstairs
(like I'm going to listen in)
in our one-room loft apartment
she turns the TV up loud
as if that could distract me
more than the sound of
her Steve Voice.
Full of giggles and curves and
gushing acquiescence,
I recognize it
that used to be her
Buddah Voice,
the voice when we first were in love
when she had a crush on me
before I became her husband
her promise around her finger
her conjugal banality
and it slowly, deliberately
steps and grinds its heel
into my heart
because there is more electricity lately
in the Steve Voice
than the Buddah Voice,
and I won't mention anything
and I'll rehearse my indifference
(if I inquire too much I'm presumed jealous
if I inquire too little I'm presumed condoning this)
so I practice
with long even breaths
repeating my mantra
the only thing that keeps me sane:
I trust my wife.
I trust my wife.
I trust my wife.
