JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

My husband’s lips are Fahrenheit

his heart is Centigrade

his temper boils much higher than

his chilly masquerade

 

Often I just can’t figure him

five eighths of what he says

is thirty-two more that he shows

or thirty two points less

 

In vain I strive to calculate

the meaning of his weather

and if his words are from his heart

or elsewhere altogether