Freud
or somebody said
“Writers write
for three reasons: fame, fortune
and the love of beautiful women.”

I remember you
telling me that,
gliding
like some film star
to your side of the bed,
Lighting a cigarette in that smug dark
and asking me:
“Which one?”

I didn’t laugh, just
pulled the comforter
over you,
no doubt
My lips moving
in time
to the music.