Muse, Danny Earl Simmons

You’re right.
I show way too much
skin and roll up the blinds
so high that the neighbors can see
too much of the inside and private of us.

You blush
at the almost half-way
of a page of prayers for you
and I can tell that you secretly wonder
what life would be like if shared with a carpenter

instead of a poet.
You might be sipping
iced-tea on a new shaded
deck watching him drive nails hard
with single blows of his tanned, muscled arm,

and your busyness
would be your business.
Instead, you married an indiscreet 
worshiping wordsmith with a vanity blog.
It is lucky for you that I don’t know how to draw.