We live by the harbor now and at night
the ships often blow their foghorns.
She’s a light sleeper.
She will leap up, sitting straight up in bed.
“Damn!” “What is it, what is it?”
“I thought you farted.”
“Not that time dear.”
She is a good child.
Living with me has dysfunctioned her nerves.
Actually, I like to save up the farts
for the bathtub.
Those grey bubbles waft up
a magic stench.
Farting is much like fucking.
You can’t do it all the time.
But when you do
there often comes a feeling of proudness,
as if your artistry in the act were a rare
and precious thing.
I fart more than I fuck.
And I fart better than I fuck.
And I am pleased
to be mistaken for a foghorn
in the middle of the night.