She Rides By Every Day

Her perfume is lovely in the passing

breeze.

She has a husband who never smiles. He makes her wear ankle length skirts, and a frumpy hat that nearly covers her head. She utters not a word when he's near, and moves like a spooked and timid animal to let him pass. I hear her dinners are to die for.

He leaves for work every morning, getting in his Caddy with the dent in the door; it's not new. My friend Madeline, she's a neighbor of hers, lets her keep that bike in her shed. Every morning, not long after he leaves for work, she walks down to Maddy's house and lets herself in to the shed. It's like a different girl emerges from there, as the door swings open and she rides out, confident as the day is long, in that bathing suit and refreshing quality about her. She won't come back until shortly before he's home, and somehow has dinner waiting for him.

We all wish he would go away.

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Willard Cooper is a self-taught ward of the state.