The Comfort Zone

I was cleaning out my closet today,
that cluttered place I call my mind,
when I ran across your memory
from another place, another time.

I remember how comfortable you were.
You had a comfortable home in a comfortable neighborhood.
You drove a comfortable car and you had a comfortable life.
Your manicured lawn was comfortable.
Your comfortable husband owned a comfortable business,
and had a comfortable secretary, who often smiled comfortably.
Your comfortable children went to comfortable schools.
On comfortable summer Saturdays,
you had comfortable barbecues in your comfortable back yard
where your comfortable friends got comfortably tipsy
from comfortably imported ale
purchased in your comfortable neighborhood liquor store,
the same place you purchased those comfortable martini mixes
that kept you comfortably happy
on long comfortable lonely afternoons,
while you watched your comfortable television,
sitting in your comfortable recliner
next to your comfortable shelves
full of comfortable books.

And then you met me.
And I made you extremely uncomfortable.

It was so uncomfortable knowing me,
putting your uncomfortable hands
in my uncomfortable hair,
letting my uncomfortable mouth
kiss you so uncomfortably,
screaming my uncomfortable name
while you moaned uncomfortably.
You wrote those uncomfortable love poems to me
on uncomfortable Post-It notes,
saying you wished I was all yours and you were all mine,
And I wondered sometimes what you thought about
while you were eating comfortable mashed potatoes
from a comfortable spoon,
sitting at your comfortable table
with your comfortable family,
with your thighs still wet
from another uncomfortable afternoon
spent with uncomfortable me.
“Mom? Did you hear me? I have soccer practice tomorrow afternoon.”   –  Andy Grammer, Honey, I’m Good.


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