Two Sphinxes

Troy’s slack skin
slides under my fingers.
He’s out for the count
whatever that means,
his ribs aligned like ridges
on the sandy marge of a brackish delta.
If I were younger I could smell him too.

When he wakes up
I feed him a Tums for his tear stains.
My wife has her shirt on inside out.
I thought it was maybe the style.

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