never ford the river

he, the innocent one,
fumbled my thumbs
grown home from beyorn
-jambed limbs getting stubbed

their sex was in between my legs
a pelvis or two folding at my thighs
two pansies yipping together, a kosher meal
toppled jewelry box and its jacks stabbing
at my red haired pygmy friend in the back who chants
a little gregorian while he unsheathes and
then sighs, sighs, sighs

and I see I am still paying
for falling off the monogamy wagon
with every time we are all within a foot of that room
where we forced warmed beers down his throat
and laughed at how much more wild we are
than them--at least I learned how to lie

hope she remains happy to be
my grazing, musing scapegoat
because she sure does it well
we should have learned from all those rainy-day recesses
sitting at those macintoshs, playing game after game
of Oregon Trail (we were all there at age 9, in the same room)
that you never should ford the river

and the rest of us, well,
we aim to forget.