I Envy

I Envy

“I envy Seas, whereon He rides” —Emily Dickinson

I envy morning that breaks over his strong chest.
I envy noon that calls him to lunch.
I envy evening that sees
his eyes grow tired from screening,
and night—I envy her arms, her bed linen
enfolding his warm limbs
while he sleeps.
I envy his car: rear view mirror 
catching his glances, 
gear-shift knob responding 
to his warm hand, clutch
knowing the pressure of his foot, 
ignition accepting his key.
I envy the route his car takes to work
and the other drivers who might catch
a glimpse of him as he goes.
and I envy the music he listens to, 
and I envy the clothes that rub 
against his toned body,
and I envy all of his co-workers
who see his bright face
lighting up from cheery banter.
I envy his coffee cup, his fork,
and spoon, and the table under
which his legs rest while he dines—
most of all:
I envy the waitress with whom he flirts,
glimpsing her breasts, wondering
how they would feel in his hands
and on his naked chest, and how
she would sound moving under him.

A slightly different version of appears in my collection Turtle Woman & Other Poems.