Not for Sport for Once

She rides me
as she has for years--
a cold offering
to an idol we'll never share.
"That's a new one,"
I observe between thrusts
and the setting sun.
The ink is fresh;
the body isn't.
she's more beautiful
than in high school.

She shivers in affirmation
and pleasure that's forbidden.

Black text.
Two dates.
Her ribcage.
Foreign epitaph.
Beautifully under
her bra strap.
Her grand-someone
left last year.

But it's false:
We don't die
all at once.
The French say
a little at a time
and they're right.

There's a fine line
between man's laughter
and manslaughter.

Currently reading:
"The Art of Racing in the Rain" by Garth Stein.

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