Setting livestock aside, wives -
what an anticlimax:
copulation without capitulation,
only playing dead (worthy though
of an Olivier), the chase
over before the TV’s off,
sleep coming before either combatant.
And waking to prey
defenseless in broad daylight,
balking only at cannibalism
with 24 hours’ stubble,
consenting to be impaled,
run through the torso before work
but make it quick.
© 2013 Slush Poet
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