My Lover Never

Lovers never were supposed to be our friends.
That’s passion’s funny lie.
Matrimony had a lover,
they took bike rides together,
shared an angel sex partner
tied her to a cement block and utterly rejected her.
My lover never gave a handjob
in the muck, hardly.
My lover is a sex lamb, incensed
and salmon-colored
like that man over there,
pruning his foreign foliage, ignoring me.
Awfully American, pretending not.
A fancy American wearing stripes.
I’m wearing a skirt.
I tried to call, a little hurt.
Attending yet another wedding.
My lover pumps a bright bicycle,
hoards wire hangers, licks moths,
finds pleasures inside his mouth.
We must atone some, my love.
Something inside must climb and crinkle.