DID SHE KNOW SHE WOULD BE DYING?

She slept the sleep of the satisfied
the 'morning after' our midnight ride,
too faraway to notice the sheets
were not covering her upfaced teats,
nor the bewitching bikini line
that I had eagerly claimed for mine,

Her fair haired head to one side lying;
did she know soon she would be dying?
She'd rejoiced in the label Good Time Girl,
our no-strings encounter passed in a whirl.
That body that seemed in the rudest health
carried the seeds of death within itself.

I after heard she was diagnosed
with cancer. Her body metamorphosed
to a skeletal mastectomised shell
casketed, prepared for her funeral
leaving me bereftly lonesome and blue,
as last man, perhaps, she had made love to.