I can sense them, his old lovers,
his old leavers,
their cloves and smoke thick in
threaded carpet, grease stains
browning on unwashed paint.
Other tenants, other times.
Most pass through this station,
moving up or down the home-hierarchy
to new mortgage or penitentiary.
I stay.
His transience suits me;
I never want more.
He can only be rented,
like everything else, really,
pimped for profit. But I treat him
well, I think, much better
than the others.
Every time I open the door,
I tell him I’m lucky.
I tell him he’s beautiful. Mine,
but still his.
I’m not jealous. He can think of
Them when he’s with me;
who am I to demand?
I love him.
He compares me to others,
I know. They weren’t so
dependent, so needy.
He is who he is,
and that’s okay.
I have no claim,
pay another for his company,
sure that he won’t remember.
Sure that I am not the last.
That I’m grateful
to have made his acquaintance.
*
There are books. Great books. Here.
And poetry. Always poetry. Here.
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