She is tiny as a butter knife
and as if she were some dainty pastry, she
often wears lace or hugs silver
next to her cheek.
No children, but in the kitchen, a big red and blue Macaw,
a living room full of yellow and blue parakeets
which she claims all talk to her while she reads poetry
and drinks coffee from a doll-sized cup.

If I met her in the library, I'd
never think she were married to a dough
man. And in fact if I saw her husband on the street,
with his torso slim as a French baguette,
and his long-fingered hands which don't seem like paddles
or even hooks, but more like those
of a man on a tropical terrace drinking rum,
I wouldn't guess
that either of them go fishing
in the Rocky Mountains on their vacations,
or that they avidly read a Star Trek
fanzine.