Sixty-nine
The good news is sex remains alive.
Thought it would be over
at the fading age of sixty-five.
Simply a hazy memory, like
the chocolaty taste of a Snicker bar,
or an Uncle Sam poster declaring
"I want you" or the mellow sounds
of Paul Desmond's sax soothing from
the nickel jukebox at the A&W.
Gone like Scarlett's wind or Elvis'
pink Cadillac.
The bad news is sex remains alive.
thought the end a given
as I celebrated number sixty-seven.
Now approaching sixty-eight I can
hardly wait to hear your footsteps,
the soft patter of feet, slipping quietly
through the garden gate.
Last night was divine. If I keep
this up, I surely won't reach sixty-nine!
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