Poetry by Henry
John Steiner, poet…
The Perfect Woman
Is
50
… or there ‘bouts
She
cares and improves like a relentless nurse
…and
next to goddessliness is cleanliness.
The
perfect woman works—
Having
something to do and somewhere to go—
And
she sleeps like a baby squirrel early Saturday
While I putter.
She
smiles Eve’s smile, and her
Happiness
vibrates my bones, while
Her
sadness chokes like hemp rope.
The
perfect woman has moments of sweet petulance;
She
shows you all her gears and cranks
Without apology.
She
has cats…
And
a westside studio flat in the low 100s.
Her
dress adorns her not, but she
It,
and
She
has no embarrassing diamonds, but
Waters
my plants, and holds my hand on long walks,
Traveling fast and frugal.
The
perfect woman speaks
Important
words that come to mind, ever interrupting my
Poor
remarks, destroying my pleasure in
Self-doubt…
She
games with demons who suffer as they demonize.
A
hot furnace in her nakedness,
Men
are warmed by the hearth and fed at the table of the perfect woman.
I’ve
known her long, and we’ve only met.
The
sun sets over her house—
The
wind blows by her house—
The
city wakes up near her house—
The
big river ebbs and flows under her window—
Plants
and animals breathe in her house.