“All the men in my life mock me,” I tell him,
so he will stop smiling like that
and do something forceful, like kiss me.
He just waves those fins of his at the piano keys and sings
“Ragtime Cowboy Joe.” He is mocking me
by not kissing me, by not
falling at my feet. If he ever had anything
wise or even perspicacious to say,
I have long ago lost the ability to hear it.
I am staring at his attenuated hands.
Now he will stand up
and knock the desperado’s gun to the ground
but his rage will leave him
clenching and unclenching on air.