“I want to write you a poem,”
my wife told me this morning
as I entered our room.
She wrapped her arms around my waist
and added coyly, “I already have a title,
do you want to know what it is?”
And she began swaying her hips gently.
“It’s called, ‘Anchor’, and it begins like this:
‘You are my anchor…'” she said.
“Okay,” I responded. “And do you want to know
how it ends?” she asked. “It ends like this,
‘You are my Anchor butter…'”
and she burst out laughing.
But she did not stop dancing.
Instead, she tightened her embrace
and anchored me there with her on the floor.