The Day That I Won’t Be Able To Get It Up Anymore

I have concerns
About the day
When I won’t be able to
Get it up anymore.

The grey hair
More hair
Slightly paunchy stomach
Don’t bother me so much
About middle age
As the foresight
And inevitability
Of not being able to get
A hard-on.

I love women.

I love pussy.

I love women
And pussy
And more importantly
Everything connected to them.

They are exceptional.

I love the arch at the top of the thigh.
The slope of the breast
Meeting the underside
Of the nipple.

The sinews of the gastrocnemius
And peroneus longus
Carving
Like rivers
For thousands
Of years
Into the curve
Of a warm ankle.

I really appreciate
Pretty feet.

Pretty feet
Are ‘arte eccezionale’.

The cascade
Of the spine
As it pours
Into a perfect
Heart-shaped
Ass.

All of this I love.

The sculpture of the arm and back
As it meets the neck.

Hair falling
Tangled and wired
Framed around
An oval face
And wide lips.

It’s a beautiful thing.

Breakfast in the morning.

I’m making it.

Homemade pancakes
With fresh fruit
And maple syrup.

Crisp bacon.

Stovetop lattes.

The sun is up.
The weather is undeniably perfect.

And I will be totally obsessed
With why I couldn’t
Get it up
The night before.