I always thought I knew her 'til she won
my heart -- mantled trophy tarnishing to
forget the shine and excitement of three
years, nearly enticed into that role for
love. Still the seasons pass, and geese fly Vs
to warmer climes, and the neighbor's dog sics
me as I pass his yard, smelling for sex
or bones, and I walk home to solitaire
and cable TV, all confusion pent
up inside, watching QVC to buy
Love™ if they're selling it this week in four
easy payments -- resolved again to try.
And I knew what it meant -- menage a trois
thought I'd like to attempt the kind of sex
I'd read about while exercising quads
(etc.) in love sessions of one,
when fifteen in high school, a sophomore,
glossing letters from an April Penthouse.
But now, in regret, I slam down a fifth
of bourbon like milk, removing all trace
of her in pink pajamas, silk doubling
up inside of me, reversing the kiss
that started it all -- that game of Uno
winning everything from me years before.
This Autumn day brings penance to the fore
walking under geese, the quintessential
flock -- I should at least have tried it,
entwined my limbs with hers and hers, a trio
of bodies engulfed in salacious sex,
a step beyond, a fantasy of bi...
But who was I then, to dare to double
inadequate odds, plunge headily forth
into unknown lands, where three leads to six
and jealous spouses and cocktails at 5,
where French girls hang old Germans out to dry?
I'd never be happy again with one.
I said good-bye instead and waited five
months for a call from the you of us three.
And sex has never been the same with me.
-john martin 1999