Lust

I feel lust when It should be dust

I feel lust when I should feel like dust,

too much testosterone according to my

Geriatrician. I can’t help myself.

Fireman make my mouth water.

 I put on rubber gloves,

a mask, a lab coat, and go to Brice’s house for

a drink last Friday

(we’ve been slow dancing electronically).

Like all women I want to talk

before sex and be a little drunk and be

kissed with intention to

paralyze but only for seven minutes or I get

Jittery.

 I just decide I am ready to tell him because

now I am bored with this dance after 50 years,

too many partners to remember identifying marks

or howls.

Listen, I say, here’s what I want.

I look at him in his old Patagonia, ripped at the hem and spotted,

hair half brown half gray stuffed under a Patriots cap,

face unshaven, nylon turtleneck blued into gray, open mouth

revealing years of ground out rage and he’s thinking,

What the hell now? So I

say I want to have dinner with someone every night.

I want a body in the bed next to me that doesn’t move or make

sounds.

 I want someone to have my back.

I want you to figure out what we are going to do about dinner.

I want the smell of soap and skin and silk and the feel of hips and maybe

a gun in the house,

 a stick shift car and a big dog, Trivial Pursuit 80’s version,

I want you to figure out what I want and then give it to me when I want it not when you do and I want

chocolate pie.

And then he says I don’t want to have dinner every night.

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