by Chet Corey

I walk around the living room
sub-vocalizing--poem composing.
My wife enters, folded laundry
in her arms. “Talking to yourself,”
she says. “You’re a lonely woman,”
I say, “taken to hearing voices.”
“God knows when you’re lying,”
she says, and heads downstairs
to wash another soiled load,
and I’m left to listen for another line--
to hear that other voice,
the one she said she’d overheard.

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