The Competition

One forty over ninety, not bad for a sixty-three year-old
rising from the can, glancing back to look hard for red;
jealous of a man dying of leukemia, my wife's first lover
some time before I met and wed her four decades past;

she reads his website each night before bed to be certain
if he still is (not sure what to make of his not answering
emails since last week); I scan the newspapers every day
for MR's obit, which I imagine will lead with the sentence:

"Died at seventy-three, LZ's Teaching Assistant at Berkeley,
a charismatic bookish fellow and ne'er-do-well cradle robber."

Gerard Sarnat

If you have any comments on this poem, Gerard Sarnat would be pleased to hear them.

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