21 (just years)



She leaned over the bar to arm wrestle.

She'd pulled me to a stool to let me win.

Red hair and green eyes and I lied and lied.

It was some other kid's birthday party,

but she wasn't anybody's mother.

She had a tanned, freckled, sunburned bust,

    she wore a low-cut, rust, v-neck sweater,

and I said that no woman could beat me,

and boasted of other women who'd tried,

and she let me win again and again,  

    and said "Ooh!" when she felt my muscle,

and she smiled, part with love, part with disgust,

knowing that just years had come between us.



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