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