They married sisters, always knowing.
Years would not make husbands
better than a sister. In the gossip,
in the movement of the eyes,
the men were always seconds,
sharing their known place with a nod:
somewhere between a plodding
and a rained-on god, consoled by pudding.

Seth Crook

If you have any comments on this poem,  Seth Crook would be pleased to hear them.