When I was young and sexual
I looked forward to a cool Olympian age
for release from my obsessions.
Ho, ho, ho. At sixty the body’s one desire
sustains my pulse, not to mention
my groin, as much as it ever did, if not quite
so often. When I gaze at your
bottom as you bend gardening, or at your breasts,
or at your face with its helmet
of sensuous hair, or at your eyes proposing
the text of our next encounter,
my attention departs from history, baseball,
food, poetry, and deathless fame.
Let us pull back the blanket, slide off our bluejeans,
assume familiar positions,
and celebrate lust in Mortality Mansions.
Or say: Then why does fantasy roll
Debbie Does Horsecollar, in which
he shares the screen with an idiot
teenage stranger of long blond hair
with whom he could not sustain
conversation for thirty seconds?
Although it’s bully that Horsecollar
copulates as a sexagenarian
(we needn’t congratulate him, Doctor
Zero notes), he must acknowledge
that the god is blind and a baby.