After leaving my ex-lover sleeping in his bed,
I think about turning thirty-seven in ten days,
and about being alone the next thirty-seven years.
There are some advantages. Give myself to poetry
giant-heartedly, undiminished by love's demands.
Give myself to the unchanging arms of casual sex.
Back home, watching my all-time favorite porn flick,
the blond college freshman tied to the hammock
begging for the fist, I take all of ten minutes.
What to do with the other minutes after that?
My dog-eared books turn their backs to me. I scrub
the common bathroom that has not been cleaned for weeks,
but the toilet bowl grins like a loser's trophy.
I'm craving dully for the next hit, the bang of sex
or the wham of sounds transposing to a clear image.
In the interval between spunk and poetry lies death.
The freshman intuits that. Which is why he begs
for the gloved fist to enter him again and again.