Funny poems from New Yorker

When Are You Planning to Turn Off Your Kindle?

They say love is light.
I think they do.
I’m not really sure.
I might have heard that in a Subaru commercial.

The point is that I see your light right now.
And I wish I didn’t.
Because I’m really tired.
And I had a long day.
And I have to get up early tomorrow.
All of which you know.

Another thing they say is that a man can know something but forget it almost instantly.
Like a goldfish.
I sigh the sigh I sigh when I’m annoyed.
But you don’t hear me.
Because you have earbuds in.
And are watching what appears to be a video of people bodysurfing on pudding.
And here I thought you were reading a book.

Maybe love is like light.
In that it can fade.
Seriously. Would it kill you to watch that in the bathroom?

Orgy

Autumn.
Overcast and cool.
Woodsmoke-scented air.
Leaves in the yard.

We decided to go out back
among the tall hedgerows to rake and bag the leaves.

You said, in a very sexy voice,
“We’re out of garbage bags.”
And in your shrugging I might have seen
your breasts move,

Had they not been covered by
your fleece sweatshirt,
your work shirt,
and your T-shirt.

“Well, I’m going in,” you said.
Later, we heated up Dinty Moore beef stew
and then you went to bed.
I watched half a Jason Bourne movie.

Did I say orgy?
Sorry, my mind wandered.
I meant yard work.

Date Night

Who are you . . .
What?
. . . texting. I was just wondering . . .
Sorry. What?
You’re texting and I just . . .
Client. Wait. They’re changing a . . .
What?
Meeting. Tomorrow now.
Oh, O.K. Well, I guess I’ll check . . .
Done. So, who are you . . .
One second. Sorry. Fuck.
Work?
What?
Is it work?
Wait. I told them where the file was.
Who?
What?
Nothing.
Damn it. It’s on the thumb drive. They know that . . .
What is?
What?
Nothing.
This restaurant is nice.
What?

Is This the Right Time for That?

Standing at the door
ready to go,
tapping my foot.
(We are late for my sister’s surprise party.)
I turn and see you
in the kitchen,
like a man on a summer afternoon by a lake
casually adjusting a fishing rod.

Only it’s not a fishing rod.
It’s fingernail clippers.
And you are cutting your fingernails
over the sink.
You look up, and perhaps because of the expression on my face
you say, “What?”
It would be impossible for me to explain
if you don’t already understand.

Are You in the Mood?

I am.
Let’s put the kids down.
Have a light dinner.
Shower.
Maybe not drink so much.
And do that thing I would rather do with you than with anyone else.
Lie in bed and look at our iPhones. ♦