My mafia widow is dead,
A mobster’s mole
From an era when that
Still meant something,
A play girl whose husband
Dabbled just enough
In drugs and other “business”
to connect her
With some serious bosses,
Giving her just enough clout
To get whatever she wanted,
(except perhaps for me),
a fading star,
when we first met,
scurrying from job to job,
getting her kicks
from me,
like one long cock tease
thought she didn’t mean
it that way,
making love with words
after illness and age
may the real thing
impossible,
we sometimes up
late into the night,
like teens teasing each other,
too old to be taken
as a serious beauty,
but she had class,
keeping herself in men’s eyes
with pure attitude,
she needed to be seen,
and needed to make love
even if it was only
in my vivid
imagination.
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