the other woman

...someone your are likely to meet in life, or even to be

 

in a public space somewhere

a woman does not know a man

or so it would seem to be

her habit to pretend

 

one would not know by looking

without furtive glances or ill-timed gestures

she is in his presence a solid stand-by

on the ready, hiding in plain sight

 

pretense swept aside she is loved

and loves the lack of pretense of him

just being him, it being what is

a thing unto itself wholly satisfying

 

she is the elusive part

essential to so many marriages,

a salve for hearts worn and broken

and yet still under obligation

 

where obligation begets neglect

meet the seekers of the forbidden

and they feast gluttonously

on the freedom of indiscretion

 

with joyous fervent passion's ardor

she gives love in a park, in a car, or motel

maybe a house-sat borrowed room

of a friend who knows, who understands

 

as she understands and holds dear

a belief in her lover's lavish description

of a future free of shadows; a dream

as desperately held as she in his ironclad grip

 

never lacking for a man's attention, she

has been offered the kids, the car, the picket fence

and trips to paris and vegas, relaxing first-class, but

to leave his side would be an unthinkable betrayal

 

she knows and gives his faults free reign

for without them she would not be

and on this builds an uncertain future

between architects of a precarious past

 

she is the wrecker and maker of a broken home

the keeper of another's un-kept promises

call her 'w***e,' 'tramp,' 'jezebel,' 'hussy'

but it is she who feels for the other woman