by C.B. Anderson

What Amanda demanded, Amanda usually got.
She handed me a bucket and a mop
and told me not to stop till all the floors were clean.
She wasn't really mean, but had a way
of giving orders that was somewhere near the border
in between a sergeant and a cop.

It beggared understanding why a man would let this pass,
but nonetheless, Amanda ran the show.
Full knowing that my meager brass was hardly in
her league, I polished all the silverware
and planned a Sunday brunch, then dared to light a candle
on a hunch. She said she'd let me know.

Quite candidly she swore she'd make a man of me
no matter what it took. I knew that look.
Obligingly, I turned the covers down and fluffed
the pillows, lying there until she climbed
astride of me and drove me dry. She hove aside
when done, remanded to her bedside book.

But when she mentioned that she planned to foster racetrack
greyhounds... "Stop! Enough's enough," I said.
She kissed me on the head and thanked me, called me her
Commander Anderson, and ironed my shirts.
It was a turnabout that earned my wonderment,
to have Amanda pandering instead.

© 2007 by C.B. Anderson



About the Author

C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Many scores of his poems have appeared in dozens of print and electronic journals. His e-chapbook, A Walk in the Dark, can be read on the website of The New Formalist Press.


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