Lousy Lover

Is it true that love dies
in the front seats of cars
squeezed in the vice
of wounded hotheads?

They would take it to the magistrate.

Who would get the dog
and the Great Books of the Western World?
Who would get the rug
and the cold oak bed?

His voice came crashing
from the vinyl bucket seat.
He had no thought of being overheard.

I thought that he might slug her,
she seemed so well-protected
from the word.

I could see it as she passed
sad and rigid, bent
and struggling with her dignity,
her vanity; and thinking, anyway,
that he was such a lousy lover.

Jim Culleny; 1976



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