Rob Griffith For a Young Husband Going Deaf Bird-like, he tips his head from left to right,
But knows he heard it wrong; among the bins
Of apples, pears, and grapes, there's little chance
His wife had palmed a tomato and said,
"You plump young Cato, so sick with sin."
Likewise, at church on Sunday, he's pretty sure
The preacher hadn't risen, spread his arms,
And blessed the congregation with a cryptic,
"Your meat is bun-ready. Go forth and cockfight."
The words, like worlds with orbits too elliptic,
Fall into outer darkness, a cold expanse
Where meaning cannot follow. And his wife, uncharmed
By his ceaseless bafflement, shakes her head
And mutters, "Gabriel shave me, distend a cure."