but cracking a little, her smile eternal proud of his hands proud of his body and the future they shared and are going to create he doesn’t remember the taste of the pie later, or the dinner they had but he’ll tell the weekly sponger and that woman, the one with the cold fingertips who grunts every time she pushes his hip to grab at the bedpan About how he sat down in the kitchen chair with the red corduroy cushion tied on its seat and stared at his wife’s belly and leaned to it and kissed it Adoring her always that summer day And they nod and say that’s nice clenching their jaws but not hesitating because they’ve glanced at the guest register and they’ve seen his records
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