Upper Middle Class

He was consciously anonymous,
staying up in late motel rooms
to watch scrambled porn.
He ignored the life he led,
pausing briefly for the songs
that were written for him.
The bank lines
where he waited to withdraw
he waited for himself.

His wife sat home alone,
browsing home renovation catalogs
to find the best pool boy package.
She loved her husband very much
but honestly she needed
someone to come with
when no one's coming home.

He never went first or last,
showed up at the exact time
in the exact same way
at different places in the world
with maps he memorized last night.
All his cabs led to a subway
or an airport, all his planes
to the same chain of motels,
and all his money to his mortgage,
his car, and his child's
college fund. All his furniture

led her back to him
when she sat in his easy chair,
stared at his television,
opened his cabinets and drank
his favorite scotch.
She wondered when

he came home that touch,
that bored kiss, that mumbled
jetlag question if

she had dinner ready,
the valium and martinis
put away, the silky lingerie
sleeping in the closet,

meant a kind of love
they could ease into,
curl up together
on a plush leather couch
while the television
glares blue on their faces.