Confidence

poem

Confidence

The condoms are piling up. 

He buys them everyday.  And not those little packs of three either. 
He bulks up.   She always rings him up with the same non-expression.

Ring, ring ring.   Ring Rang Rung.  Not even a wink. 
Not even a smirk.  Not even the latest weather report.

They’ve formed a mound in his living room now,
a 10-foot teepee of unused packages.  He climbs in.

It continues to grow, piercing the roof.

Some say they’ve seen a UFO.  Others, some kind of modern periscope. “My goodness, dear, is that a second moon in the sky?”

No, no.  It’s just his bald head rising through the roof,
taking a look around.

--Ray Sweatman