| 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.
