You're a peach, he tells me in his
best Gary Grant imitation. Hair combed
just so; white dinner jacket, black
tie, his gift of faux pearls dangling
from perfectly manicured nails.
He watches old movies, pretends
he's DeNiro, Redford, Astair.
Once, after watching Rocky, he tossed
me around, then wrapped me in bandages,
Frankenstein whirring ominously
in black and white on the telly.
I like his Mr. Ed the best. I get to ride
on his back, feed him bad apples, slap
him hard on the rear while he bucks,
shimmies and guffaws in delight.