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He lived in a double-wide and drove a truck,
drank a Pepsi-Cola at every meal,
read the obituaries and comic strips,
meant the center of everything he said,
listened to country music, laughed at jokes
and bet a little on the football spread.
She lived in a high-rise and practiced law,
had coffee at breakfast, always three and black,
read the obituaries and business news,
meant both sides of everything she said,
listened to new jazz, smiled at wit,
and bet on the futures market, the price spread.
They spoke the same language, more or less,
but not to each other, of course, except for the time
when they were stuck alone in an elevator
for fifty minutes five years ago.
Though each was afraid of needing a bathroom
they both behaved the way they felt befit
the sudden circumstance. They tried to relax.
She totally missed his jokes and he her wit.
Now, though, making love to the dwindling few,
he thinks of her, the small hands and the scent.
In bed she imagines him, the mouth and the smell,
what he would want her to do, what he would do.