Shane bolts at me like a horse—

horse, that’s how I called her, 

can’t stop talking about Shane 

these days: muscular, sleek,

all my women are sick of it. 

Tell me they don’t care to hear 

how Shane can rush you 

to your knees like a childhood 

sports team and I’m only fucking

with Shane these days, our backs 

whipping down the wall. Shane

speckled up my spine after 

she left. All my women tell me 

Shane won’t love you back 

as I’m pissing my last pint 

into Shane’s cup, whitening 

my teeth for Shane’s twenty year 

anniversary at the club. Shane’s 

a marathon runner. Shane won’t 

walk you home just to the door. 

A dyke outside a bar says, I don’t fuck 

with Shane no more, pummelling 

half a pack from mouth to tarmac.

She doesn’t know my Shane:

how sweet she can be for me,

how she keeps me moving 

faster, harder, my taskmaster,

my leader, my four-storey high 

electric heater. Keep sweating. 

I tell my women. Keep betting. 

We all know Shane will win me the race.