If I were a better wife, I would have asked
For an explanation of overclocking
(when all I could imagine was Dali’s deli-sliced
timepieces, hours smoked like pastrami, ready
to be folded, lovingly, onto rye)
But I didn’t. You told me anyway, knowing
I was only half listening, one-eared, the other
Open to the chilly air, the possible home
Of our local raptor; this is how it works,
How it can work, one way, not the only one.
Maybe soulmates would have been in raptures
Over overclocking, turbocharging, speed and power,
That’s what you said it was all about. Control,
That’s what I would have said it was all about,
But I’m a better wife than that, even if the pastrami
Is mail-order and seconds and minutes aren’t a mille-feuille
When I make the sandwiches. I’m lavish with dressing.
You’re far better with the knife.