Beneath Black Stallion's thready cover

in a chestnut, hand-lashed, leather fold

tucks a fist of crinkled pics of treasured girlfriends,

like a troop of bonded comrades bold.

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Dare I ask a boy to join our number?

Would he like my smile and want to trade?

Bravely, I approach and give my glossy to him.

"Ew," he tears it up and walks away.