She rarely wears green
despite what they say.

No, she typically struts
down city streets and alleys

in black ribbed stockings and boots
with thick lug soles

I would die for.

In her zeal for competition,
she wins over the one

I’ve lived for.

He looks as if he might
devour her whole.

A lust (devotion?) I have not seen
since he and I picked apples

in a faraway orchard
in early fall some other century.

I covet her orange suede mini-skirt—
the front zipper and metal studs.

Where did she find
such a treasure?

They say her very existence
is a cardinal sin. I say

I’m a sinner. Let me sin.
Let me own it.

They have no idea.
I have no shame.

I’m not afraid to look at her
looking back at him.

The M in S&M should be
my middle initial.

The you in Dylan’s “I Want You”
has become so blurry.

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