My ex-girlfriend’s blowing me in the backseat
of her Chrysler station wagon on the bank
of the Huron River when out of the window
I spy my wife in her Black Mercedes C-class
circling the gravel parking lot. The reunion
was her idea. I didn’t want to see these people
again. The blonde gives good head: squeezes
when she should squeeze, tickles with her tongue
when she should tickle, sucks in her cheeks
and pulls when she should suck in and pull.
I don’t want to finish though because if I do
I’ll be back here again and the marriage
that’s been so bearable for so long will be
over and my father-in-law proved prophet.
“It’s hard to divide up your loyalties,”
said my old buddy earlier on top
of the football bleachers after passing
me the flask. “Our histories are longer
with these folks. They’ve seen us develop,
so the question is ‘Do we owe them something?’”
This is the same Chrysler we used to lie in
with the trunk folded and the windows un-
rolled during those ceaseless summer evenings
when I could run a whole mile without
stopping and she was a self-proclaimed “orgasm
factory.” Now here I am again like a movie
on loop. She’s got the same skill. She’s got
the same hair. It feels the same, light
as a brush, on my stomach. But I will
not finish. I cannot finish. I should not
finish.