You Tell Me

I ask you, my loving husband
of neither icecreams nor incest
of neither architecture nor egyptian text
a simple little thing do I demand
of what you'd guess if you had to tell
the contents of your wife's heart
who is but now your own extension, your humble part
you first evade the answer
before complicating things
and turn to the left and then to the right
before conveniently defining it as 'a lot of things'
and then you challenge me to look right in your eye
"the ball is in your court", is your unspoken, bold reply
wondering how dare i meet your gaze,
i wipe my brow, now a sweaty string,
"now that's my husband!", is what I think
he knows his court, he knows his ball
but most importantly of all,
he knows when to throw and when to call.