It is one of nature’s great cruelties
that the body decays long before
desire slides into somnolence
and need’s nagging chatter falls quiet.
For years, I consoled myself with kind
white lies like cool, plumped pillows
for the delicately dispositioned
and the terminally terminal.
The flesh has failed
under the drag of time
and so has the knack
of keeping up a brave face.
I’ve grudgingly joined
the silent multitude of
decrepit women who nurse
their creaky harlot’s hearts.
There was a time
I could turn you on
with a lascivious smile
or a carefully nuanced word.
But no more.