after The Troggs
In the end, our argument isn't
about anything at all.
It's simply her testing
whether I'm still there.
The way she flops onto the couch
is the signal, the shock waves
of pure ostention as good as
a gauntlet thrown down.
In a parallel universe,
it is the mirror image of a game
in which the manager gets off the bench
and hitches her pants for a walk to the mound,
not revealing her intentions, entirely,
not threatening her starter, overtly.
It's still early in the game
and it's the first visit paid,
some therapy, some plea for control,
the puffed out cheek, like a squirrel's,
a dead giveaway. She lets some fly.
I've seen it enough before that I
recognize the good intentions,
what she wants to say:
Wild thing, I think I love you,
But I want to know for sure.