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Playboy

Did you want me
to see them,
or did you simply
not care enough
to protect me
from your smut,

stacked, cover up,
on the bottom shelf,
of the bookcase
behind your lounger,
eye level to a girl
playing on the floor?

And what of your wife?
Was she too cowed
to put them in a closet,
or was she grateful
for the respite lent her by
that stack of sticky gloss?

As you dozed, mouth agape,
while she played hymns
in the bedroom,
I, silently agog,
turned those pages
by the corners.

Years past your death,
and hers,
Mother told me
how you touched her
in your car when
she was not much older.

Was that my answer?