Baby, you were a tiger last night,
the famous poet growls,
paws at my breast like an apology.
He knows I like it rough.
I know his penchant for variety,
his lust’s juvenescence.
I saw his arm
slip around her flirtation,
saw him meet her platinum gaze,
maneuver her out on the deck,
grope her like he once groped me.
When we make our make-up love,
I picture impossibly young women,
lined up, his for the taking,
and I hear my time running out,
that desperate, loudening thrum.
I’m his blond, his punch-drunk muse.
He knows I’ll go down swinging.