by Cynthia Bunker

My S.O. he is a wonderful man
Strong silent type, sense of humor deadpan
I try to love him as best as I can
My S.O., my S.O.

Would I hand him my phone?
Would he take a good peek?
Would he wonder at all that he tapped, would he seek
To find I had lovers more handsome, more sleek?
My S.O., my S.O.

This question’s so funny it’s hard to reply
I trust him so deeply why ever should I
hide-scurry-conceal-distract and on the sly
do something he’d scoff at and sadly imply
old lady, you’re really not lighting my sky
as my S.O., my S.O.

Yep, trust’s one big thing but another thing thing
is my S.O. scorns dumbphones, he calls ‘em bling bling
prefers life lived off-grid and refuses to cling
to any much comfort, except wall phones to ring up the kids
and his S.O, his S.O.

I could hand him my phone since he hasn’t a clue
what to do with the thing, he just says, hon, could you
please check what’s the weather, what the price is of gas
and then text our son, and which way gets there fast?
My dear loving hypocrite, though who’s not, alas?
I love him to death and will never sneak past
My S.O., my S.O.