for my first wife, just a shiny bijou that went
well with her winter home on St. Croix
and her fleet of luxury cars.
I don’t know what I was thinking,
bondaging my 6-foot-4 heft to the
glitz of her world.
I know now she just wanted my Outland Trophy,
for best interior lineman, to grace her den,
and me along with it.
Today, I suffer flashbacks, traumas of a failed marriage.
Images of me seductively posed on that leopard skin
in front of her grand fireplace haunt me, all the time.