The Constance Pultz Prize
Wife Not Comfortable with the Idea of Nudist Resort
Maybe it was too much cable, all those
sweaty limbs grasping and tangling, or the
lingerie catalogues swelling the mailbox.
Maybe it was too much salsa or kung pao,
heaps of jalapeños sprinkled with red pepper.
Maybe it was hearing those damned geese
honking their way overhead in waves,
off to warmer climes, the far horizon.
Maybe the shoes were too brown or not
black enough, the garden hose kinked
one time more than the manufacturer
promised. Maybe the aftershave didn’t
brace or cool, the light didn’t flatter,
or the last hairs submit and lay back flat.
Maybe I’m fat and the dog has a limp and
the wind is prying the shingles up.
Maybe it’s time to unbutton or bust.