Tuesday Tuesday Tuesday,
at two forty seven
in the afternoon.
Stanley shuffles the deck again
-for the forty or fifty or sixtieth
something time.
Deals the cards into four neat piles
gathers them back into a single stack
without looking at them
and shuffles them again.
Stacy says, do it again please,
I'm almost there. I'm almost -there.
Stanley isn't there yet either,
his hands are automatic,
he's staring out the window
where the kid from down the street
he's hired, is raking maple leaves
into piles on the lawn.
The riffle of the cards synched
with the rhythmic scratch of the rake.
The prickly pleasure that Stacy seeks
arrives, and as it shoots down
from the back her head,
along her spine and leaves
a tingle just above her ass,
she arches her back
in a delicious shudder.
Good? he asks. Yes! she says
but would you please
now brush my hair?
Tuesday Tuesday Tuesday,
barely midway through
the afternoon and five o'clock
feels as distant as next year.
Stanley says, I'll brush your hair
but then it's my turn, okay?
I want you to carve some soap.
Palmolive or maybe Dove
Irish Spring doesn't fit the season.
Stanley goes out to the garage
and inspects a row of boxes
on institutional metal shelves.
Flips the flaps on a large one, sniffs,
and takes out four bars of Dove.
Peers inside the box and frowns, getting low.
Back in the living room
he slouches on the couch,
hands a bar to Stacy.
She unwraps it with a flourish
because he loves the sound
of the waxy packaging coming off.
Which would you prefer today,
the potato peeler or the box cutter?
The peeler. Maybe start with the peeler
and finish with the box cutter?
By the way, we're down to less
than half a box of Dove.
Better get over to Costco and restock.
Get some Palmolive and Ivory while
we're at it. Stacy smiles at him and murmurs
Sure, honey. We don't want to run out.
Want to smell the first one
before I start to carve?
She begins to shave long slivers
of pale soap which falls into the apron
she has spread across her lap.
Stanley watches her slender fingers
push the peeler through the bar,
the soft sound of it's resistance
and the pause at the end of each
gentle stroke tickles his eager ear
and the first shiver stirs on his scalp.
That's exquisite, dear, you carve so well.
He lets his head roll back against
the cushions and waits for Stacy
to unwrap the next bar of soap.
Ready for the box cutter, Stan
or shall I keep going with the peeler?
Keep going, love, there's nothing
sweeter than the way you work a potato peeler
on a freshly opened bar of Dove.
Those carvers on YouTube
are butchers compared to you.
No one has the magic touch you do.
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