Mistresses dance on stage
Under naked lights
No man will watch them
With clothes on
In a place like theater
Without art
They serve food
Then serve themselves
Unfound on menu
But the only dish
In men’s swirling minds
On early mornings
They ride on cars
Parked outside the swinging doors
And each day different
Like young faces flitting by
The tinted glass walls
They make love
With men they do not know
In a place they have not been to
But looks so familiar
A place with rooms and beds
But could not be called home
Not thinking that there are women
Called wives
Who must be crying
In the corners of the kitchen
Near knives and insecticides
And razor blades
Tucked neatly in the cupboards
But easy to reach
Even by a daughter of four
