What’s In a Name?

Lying in bed
gazing in darkness
reaching over to touch
an empty body
between threadbare sheets
close by – but
never touching
My Husband? Lover?

Does it matter
what the name is
when the function
stays the same?
A rose by any other name, etc.
Bodies filling spaces
useful playthings
meant for frittering away
another night’s boredom.

Used for stuffing empty holes
filling excess corners
memorabilia of the mind,
cluttered junk
receded into dusty, dark places
retrieved for a quiet chuckle
on a frosty night.

What is your name?
Forget it – don’t tell me.
They all sound the same
in the end.

 

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