who's dissing whom with
over-inflated dodge balls
until one ego goes home mad
while we hide under the bleachers
reliving the fun days when
ping-ponging amateur reviews, tit for tat;
and you were always a tit man.
Catching up we called it― this anti-Valentine
all grown up now, we two and our words,
too mature for Freudian foreplay, I say;
you agree, slipping a sneaky hand up my sweater.