Camille contemplates her boy toy.
He sucks medical grade marijuana
from a brand new inhaler.
Later, he nods off, snoring,
spills warm beer on her sofa.
This is not what she had in mind
when she took a young lover.
She notices over-exposure
has diminished his luster.
Samson, now shorn, sleeps till noon,
anesthetized by vodka and oxycodone.
Superman has reverted to
a forgettable Clark Kent who
prefers unemployment, being in coma.
Camille misses her man of steel,
the one capable of leaping tall buildings,
stopping locomotives, quenching her fire.
Previously published in Trajectory, Spring 2013, Issue 6
The 1970’s unlocked doors:
grew a backbone,
tossed the apron,
rediscovered my brain cells.
Liberation = free love,
no bra or husband.
Worked full time,
had my own car and apartment.
Ignored rules, assumptions.
Did as I pleased:
smoked Lebanese pollen hash,
ran marathons, pierced
body parts, pumped iron.
Hung out in gay bars with
Was the belle of the ball:
drank for free,
danced all night long
with affectionate bears
and muscular women.
In separate bedrooms
on mutually celibate mattresses,
they wonder where it went wrong.
She is in perpetual motion:
dreaming, discovering, creating,
up before dawn.
He, on the other hand,
sleeps until noon, wakes hung over,
suffers migraines, hypertension
a churning ulcer, never feels good.
She is a woman with a passion
for books, photography, garden,
loves being outside.
He prefers late night games
with blood, violence and explosions,
vodka martinis with
a chaser of various drugs.
what convinced them
to get married in the first place,
especially now it has fallen apart.
Their relationship is legal fiction,
an equitable division of expenses,
occasional hour of civil
and unthreatening conversation.
After, they politely retreat
to their independent corners,
know it just can’t go on.
Jennifer Lagier encourages canine anarchy in Carmel, CA and would do the same for snakes, dead or alive.
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