My wife tells me she hates my quick-ending jokes
Their expected ironies, their rhythms
Patterned the same each time – like football games
She says, relying wholly on climax,
On that surging intense build-up – then the clock
Runs out and there’s nothing left but a win
And a loss. She doesn’t like to move on
As men do. As I do. It’s too much like sex,

She says, how I always end up distant, far
Away, withdrawing into a retreat
From what could be a tantric, post-coital glow.
She doesn’t want such closure. She wants to know
More about the Rabbi and the Priest
And where they went after they left the bar.