My wife, Diane, has super powers.
She hears things I cannot hear.
She feels things I cannot feel.
She smells things I cannot smell.
She will lift a cup of milk to my nose:
“Does this smell okay to you?” It smells
Fine to me, but down the sink it goes.
A single molecule of air slips through the window.
“I feel a draft.” She says and shuts it tight.
I feel no less cold for it, not that I was cold before.
“What’s that noise?” She asks,
As the car floats along as silent as a paper
Clip, being dragged along a plastic desk.
But the power over which I marvel most
Is her ability to detect the slight acceleration
Of my heartbeat each time I see her,
Especially when I don’t expect it.
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