by Guynor Ngronski

I loved a few women.
The best of them are dead.
The rest I couldn't bed.
The last was the worst.

O these post solstice, post menopausal blues,
said another, also dead.
Projectile vomiting afterward
lets you eat anything.

The which she illustrated.
Loved her too.

Now another rich bitch throws me over.
What survives

I get up thinking
less & less
& that goes faster

& lie back down slower.
I love the wrong woman, but I love her well
& her money too.

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