Exchanging e-mail chapters of my life
with narratives of his, I got a shock
today – in 14K – he brought his wife
into the text at roughly 8 o’clock.

Electrons sparked and piqued me to allow
he signs as “rat” or “lout” so frequently
I should have caught a clue. I notice now
his talents run to glib apology.

I feel a quantum shift in my intent –
I hope we keep the writing up, report
the cat that left the bag. I never meant
to marry him, but now he seems a sport:
a poser prince three whims below a blog
who hunkers down and ribbits like a frog.

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