
without the benefit of sex.
Is it better than the real thing?
I can’t tell you,
but I know it’s not mine.
One woman has half my wife’s name,
the other is the first spark
dying on the wick.
The wind knows not where it blows.
The night knows not when it trips
in the city light, the urban blight.
The old ticker warms
at dawn, while mosquitoes
feast on legs.