MY IDIOSYNCRATIC MATE
hasn’t changed much
from a troubled childhood.
He just doesn’t get it,
never having learned
what feelings are all about.
Taunted mercilessly as a youngster,
he buried himself in astronomy books.
He rocked his arms back and forth
as if he had wings ready to fly.
He was my teacher at Oxford.
I was smitten by his brilliance
and musical talent. He played
sonatas and concertos
after hearing them once.
After a 20-year marriage I anticipate
his lunatic behavior in social situations.
He’s an embarrassment in restaurants:
If he sees a smoking patron, he confronts
them with a command to cease and desist,
threatening to vomit in their face.
When we have visiting guests, he worries
about our water bill. When a guest lingers
in the shower, he bangs on the window.
When shopping, if I keep him waiting,
he flies into a rage, complaining,
that I treat him like a tied up dog
waiting for his master.
He’s at home in the world of the black hole,
quantum mechanics, string theory, big bang,
neutrinos and quarks, but never mastered
the art of empathy.
I won’t begin to describe
what he likes to do with me in bed.
It would make Havelock Ellis blush.
He claims, it’s the only way
for a man to reach infinity. Milton P Ehrlich 199 Christie St. Leonia, N.J. 07605