Trophy Wives

got out at last from the office,
some copying still whining in the machine,
the secretary promising deliverance tomorrow,
but freedom calls, and shopping must begin.

not one or two, but three wives might
be available today, two of them left over
from NFL quarterbacks, who tired of their haughty
beauty, I guess,

the other comes from NYC, some former
model dressed in slacks, no top,
the line of men slowly passing by,
each trophy spruced up and on sale,
today only, to rich men
who promise a pre-nup, easy payments,
sex in the driveway.

I push forward, the sign says no touching,
but how can you tell without skin?
make a commitment after a messy divorce
without a free spin?

bids are made, each trophy struts past,
each man raising auction numbers,
mine too, I’m eager, sure, signs of success
don’t come that easy, a blonde
on my arm? Good for business,
no?