Michael Coy Poet Couplet

Sophie Reiff, Trophy Wife

Is this the weekend, by the way?
           (I always think it’s Saturday!)
           Load the kids up in the car –
           country club (I hit the spa:
           hand the kids to gay Adolphe –
           calisthenics, crazy golf).
           I spoil myself – it helps the stress –
           the kids are having fun (I guess).
           Fox News Tom Cruise
           No Jews designer shoes.
           Rufe’s so square, a diplodocus:
           the kids will always be my focus.

           Everybody needs a break
           (we’re human too, for goodness’ sake).
           We just do the normal things:
           cabin in Borrego Springs,
           week in Vegas, see the shows,
           birthday dinner (Kiriko’s):
           never noodles, only sushi
           (table used by John Belushi) –
           private beach in old La Jolla
           (Rufe knows someone, bigshot lawyer):         
           cocktail bar, upholstered loungers
           (razor wire keeps out the scroungers).

           Juan’s the poolboy.  My help’s Auxi
           (Juanito’s neat, and Auxi’s mousey).
           Wears my cast-offs, lives on chilli –
           keeps her pay from getting silly.
           Neither’s legal – which is good:
           they stay grateful, like they should.
           Minimum wage would tie a noose to it:
           anyhow, they’re plenty used to it.
           She breastfeeds, Juanito hustles
           (fine-boned body, high-toned muscles).
           He’s moonlighting, pumping gas
           in San Diego, humping ass.

	   Rufe’s no idea what good taste is.
	   Parties with them friends of his.
	   I can’t stand them business folks –
	   Steaks and beers and dirty jokes.
	   I won’t go to meets or meals
           if I can’t wear my strapless heels
           and backless dress (Yves St Lauren)
           it’s not about impressing men
           (who cares what they think?) – it’s the wives
           it matters what a woman drives
           who fixed her hair.  What’s Satan’s curse?
           To show up toting last month’s purse.

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Darren White March 7, 2017 at 12:32 AM This time you will be disappointed in me because I have no idea who this is all about. I am so used to you writing about existing people! But if I discard all that, the poem paints an accurate picture of every trophy wife or husband who has nothing else to do than just look immaculate and not have any deep thoughts inside a beautiful head. And a conscience that isn't burdened by what in life could be very unfair. Michael Coy March 7, 2017 at 12:39 AM Darren, I'm not disappointed at all! You understood perfectly that it is a satire about an imaginary woman who is shallow and selfish. And you and I are very similar ... I prefer to comment on real people.