Martha, baby, you’re so beautiful. A muffin on the countertop. A cigarette lighter, pink, well-used. I remember your red Bike and the swing rope With the stick. You built it All on your own. The smell of sweat, the nice kind, like work. I never destroyed it. I think of the construction outside and those men who have wives And those who don’t. And now I feel your absence, Though you say You’re here in the kitchen The cash register’s broken And you’re using an old biscuit tin that says “Royal.” And that tattoo That circumnavigates your pretty ankle....