by CAROLYN BANKS
Untitled by Rowena Waack | Flickr
He reads my poem. “But you’re not married,” he says. Right. Not only is there a husband in the penultimate line, but a son, even earlier. “I guess it’s good,” he says, trying to mend things, erase his memory of the look that swept across my face.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You don’t have to like it.” I rub my bare foot against his to tell him it really is okay, “I’m used to it, really.”
“I’ve never met a poet before,” he says. “And I sure as hell never slept with one.” We both laugh, his laugh real, I think.
“We’re a dying breed.”
“Not just yet,” he says, flopping atop me.
Ghost Sick Jarvis
Eric Siegelstein / Flapperhouse
Cleaners / Christian Heilmann / Flickr
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