In The Pink

Mr. Jonathan Sutton, p-h-d,was in the pink.
At the pinnacle of his career
a consultant,
married into a rich family,
blessed with a generous spouse.
He lived in a liberal ghetto in Maryland,
“by choice” as his wife says.

Their large, paneled, oak, front door
framed by two brass lamps, polished weekly by
the handy man.
The steps, round,
of used, red brick and granite.

A fat Australian Shepard always on the by the door,
appeared in all the Christmas photos,
his blue eyes reflecting the Brinks security sign
on the lawn nearby.

His wife, a thin, delicate and exacting intellectual
took videos of the new snow on their deck
and sent them to their friends
and the kids in Florida.

He, goofy looking since his teens,
used his heavy, ivory comb to fit, calibrate,
a lock of hair carefully across his forehead,
each morning, polished his gold, rimless glasses
and wore brown, corduroy pants that
squeaked as he walked
stiffly
in cordovan loafers.

Mrs. Sutton has problems with her menstrual cycle,
making her life
and those around her,
miserable and on tippy toes
as she lay in the living room,
her eyes covered with a wet, linen cloth –
two, maybe three days each month.

- James Edge
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Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental