At the podium, the famous poet is having sex with his wife br in the poem he reads tonight. He uses the four-letter word. br br The act is all ankles and elbows, slits and staffs, grunting, br sweating, and unnaturally assumed positions. Naturally, br I'm embarrassed because I can see the famous poet's wife br br squirming in her chair as he caresses the heft of her breast, br the eager spread of her knees, and a tiny, beautiful blemish br br none of us will ever see. Handy with his tongue, he speaks br of that moment her thighs muffled his ears in her passion br br and lingers on a lonely moment when her rush of pleasure br left him behind. The ladies are glassy-eyed. The men nod br and grin. I'm shifting in my seat. The famous poet's wife br br sighs as the last line kisses the poet's lips. Some of us clap, br and the applause raises her husband's head from his work.