Sundays

SUNDAYS

You remember Sundays?
At the old apartment?
You’d be reading the Times
or working on a paper
wearing one of my ratty t-shirts
with a stupid saying
like “Got Cream?”
or “I’m not prejudiced; I hate everybody.”
You would be poring over whatever you were doing
furrowed brow and colored pencils scribbling
leaning over in my outsized clothes
with your amazing cleavage
and I’d always suggest a blow job
and you’d always decline.

You remember then?
It wasn’t so long ago.
You used to tolerate me back then
much more than today.

We would go for lobg walks:
in the park
to the bridge
past a museum
and I would beg to take a break
a rest
any respite for my poor poor tootsies
and you’d politely decline.

You made me do so much
I didn’t want to do
that ended up being so good for me.
I doubt I ever thanked you.

I walk alone these days
as you’ve no doubt heard
since you got custody of our friends
while I kept the requests for Sunday blow jobs
while Steve got the real thing
– or so I imagine
when I’m reading the paper
to myself
with furrowed brow
in my too tight t-shirts.

About Jonathan Berger

I used to write quite a bit more.
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