She pops in
and out of his office
like a chipmunk,
these, his weaning days
as chief cook
and bottle washer,
chirping about how
she needs his advice
on this or that,
and even in my
Harry Potter cubby hole,
I hear the door close
and let my imagination
fill in the details
of what I think goes on
behind it with him,
nothing unsavory,
nothing either might
be ashamed of
if revealed, just
enough
to leave me drooling
with envy at what he has
and what I lack,
reprising her role as
cub
from what she had played
with me, and perhaps
this is why I do what I do,
sending off that
hateful diatribe
that seems so innocent
on the surface,
yet has the potential
of a stick of dynamite,
revealing more in
its innocence
that could be done
as an accusation,
saying I had talked to him
about her,
and he assured me
all would be well,
when it won’t.
