A Dead Lover

Death came on to you as abruptly as
you came on to me in that
club, with Christmas coming.

I didn’t perform well–sorry. Too much
alcohol, and I was probably
star-struck, as

scruffy little Runners are not often
chased down in clubs by
leading ladies, but you were

young and alive and
perpetually horny, and I
really don’t mind that I was just

another notch on your bedpost because
however brief, my notch is
deeper to me than Death’s.

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Comments

  • Migs  On February 24, 2015 at 12:43 pm

    I really like this poem. Keep writing.

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