I am walking on Swenson Avenue,
my folded arms creating
an armless shadow on the pavement.
he cannot shake my hand,
he cannot defend me with right jabs,
cannot scratch my eyes
when I lift his wallet,
cannot take me in his arms,
parry thrusts,
maneuver my face to his.
he can reach for nothing
grasp nothing
take nothing.
he could kick-box, I suppose,
live on foreign aid and scotch,
spoon-fed and straddled
by a visiting nurse.
I release our limbs.
we might embrace but he prefers me
at arms length.
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