| The Competition
One forty over ninety, not bad for a sixty-three year-old
rising from the can, glancing back to look hard for red;
jealous of a man dying of leukemia, my wife's first lover
some time before I met and wed her four decades past;
she reads his website each night before bed to be certain
if he still is (not sure what to make of his not answering
emails since last week); I scan the newspapers every day
for MR's obit, which I imagine will lead with the sentence:
"Died at seventy-three, LZ's Teaching Assistant at Berkeley,
a charismatic bookish fellow and ne'er-do-well cradle robber."
If you have any comments on this poem,
Gerard Sarnat would be pleased to hear them.