It   It, we don’t speak about, but if we did, we’d call it the fine print, the boring part you didn’t read at first, not at the start. Admit: You wanted her — she was a widow and she looked so fine, so free, when Parson popped up in his sequined coat and dazzling smile, he joined your hands and said some jazz about the best you’ll ever be — the stars are out tonight, my friend — and then he ran through the reasons — because you want, because a cowboy like you has his needs — it was as if he knew you — but! but are you man enough? By God, you said I am, I am, I am . . .       . . . and now you ooze awake, your head is thunder, acid rain, she’s right beside you, grinning with her scaggy teeth and scrambled mane, she’s fingering the ring, she coos You’re mine, she coughs, and in a sulfurous puff he’s here — Parson, red socks and all. Enough! he laughs. You signed. In blood. We’re on. You lose.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont November 2012