Final Game
we were married and no one knew,
seven stacks of pancakes versus a german chocolate cake
made
by midnight, and a long cool woman in a black dress
mostly echo. mostly vermont maple siphoned from barns, mostly
the high end of your hand absorbing my chin, from pucker to pucker
mostly,
a name lost on pickled taste buds
still kept. waiting. waiting. waiting for me to cry
from an overflowing, full mouth. I outlasted
the feminine fragments of my youth,
in bitterness, I survived
the final game of scattergories and blouses
stained in Swedish fish – I populated like orchestra
only to maintain the taste of you a commitment
without sonnet or spectacle bing cherry red Crosby
my vowels on a bulletin board in a retired apartment
and my ages
wasted wanting
someone who wanted the same two weeks too late
a pelican and history engulfed in afterlife
we were married and no one knew