I tell her the pizza story
is the best she’s ever done
which is not true.
Her poetry is better and yet,
it drips with something
exuding a strange pheromone
I can’t ignore,
one of many she’s done
in which I get caught,
like fly paper
I can’t escape
once I put my fingers on it,
so sticky, I ache
when I try,
the old woman
in the senior luncheon
who wants a man to fuck
or the hints in other stories
of touching and being touched,
she, shrugging off my complement
as if she knows the truth already,
how inescapable we find them
once we get attached,
more of the same quagmire,
the need for her attention,
and these small booby traps she sets
we can’t keep from setting off,
in our heads, in our dreams
in our vivid imaginations.
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