Once I made love to a woman
with child. In my attic now, I find
a photo of her just starting to show,

she and her unborn shortly to die
in a motorcycle accident.
But how could I have known?

I was the life of the party back then,
bouncing around, a cat who believed
in nine lives and always coming back.

And when she left the bar, I followed.
And when she came, she cried.
She was one of those who cry.


©James L. Ralston


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