He’s in love with you. But you’re only his
For the workweek. At night, you’re married.
On weekends, you lie with your husband
And tell him you’re thinking about work.
How his hands make things move across his desk.
How he signs his emails. He adores you.
Everyone knows about the two of you,
Though nothing’s happened, of course, you’re his
Colleague. So what if you stop by his desk
To say, I’m hungry. Are you absolutely married
To the idea of pizza? I propose let’s work
On it later. The phone rings. It’s your husband.
Like a man from TV, your husband
Doesn’t exist in your real life, you
Can’t seem to place him when you’re at work.
A staticky shape in the mist; his
Sheepish face, the reason you married
Him, a bent paper clip in your desk.
Chastely, your lover stops by your desk.
Stop calling him that. You have a husband.
And everyone knows you’re married
To the job. So concentrate. He tells you
He’s written the perfect agenda; this, his
Persistent attempt to woo you through work.
He has become your husband at work.
The dry marital bed of his desk
Where you reach for the comfort of his
Desire. You need another husband,
A partner, someone to bear fruit with you.
He pines for you. You crave it. Thus, you’re married.
You’ll never leave the man you married
For the man that you married at work.
You don’t have to. He belongs to you,
Like the menu you stow in your desk.
Like dessert. You don’t tell your husband.
It’s not cheating. Just, this business isn’t his.
His hand touches yours. Whose? Their faces, married
Into one face, one husband, one unending job to work.
The desk is your bed, the bed your desk. And the dutiful bride—that’s you.