Nice Guys Finish Last

No they don’t, sneered me at 7,

as my mom let the sleezy mechanic

back into our lives, his lies

rattling in his toolbox, sex loosening

her resolve.

Nice guys finish last.

No they don’t, sneered me at 17

as another she said ‘no’,

the shadow of her last love

chasing her into bacchanals hosted by a horned god.

Nice guys finish last.

No they don’t, sneered me at 27

at the hallway of slammed doors,

the whirring of the printers’ laughter

and the flutter of others’ freshly inked words

drowning out my knocking.

Nice guys finish last.

No they don’t, sneered me at 37

as my she says ‘no’

by covering herself so I don’t

get any ideas. She goes to bed early

as a balm from the pain entombing us.

Nice guys finish last.

My widower walk toward the finish

is filigreed by the white-clothed runners’

sweat, washed and gleaming in the day’s death.