Celebration
There is something very free and something very right
In an empty house on the turn of night
Just some quiet rooms with a lean and lovely look
And the promise of a bath and the presence of a book
With everything to do, but no one to do it for
I can settle, I can saunter, I can rush through every door
I can pad into the kitchen and pour a glass of wine
I can dine with silver spoons or just forget to dine
Or lean against the fridge in my lacy underwear
nibbling chicken with my fingers—I can, there’s no one there
No one yelling for its mama, no one murmuring “my dear”
No one tugging at my skirts and no one nibbling on my ear
No one frowning at my music, no one bound to hum along
I can cantillate a hymn or shout a hallelujah song
I can whistle if I want to and not quite make the key
Or tap my foot to a rhythm that is me
Or strip down naked and dance to my own tune
Then sit in the dark and watch the rising of the moon.
I can do that if I want to or do then again instead
And I’m very, very happy as I take myself to bed.
Sex: To Every Season
I predict it won’t be over, ever over
Though perhaps not as it was
Such as running through romantic fields of clover
buck naked and landing on your back in a swam of ants
And laughing till you choke and almost wet your pants.
Then his lips hushed you, and his hips crushed you
stretched out on velvet grass, in perfect shade.
That was how it was once
way back when
And likely never will be again.
Also making love at midnight on a deserted beach
As the surf glows moonlight just beyond your reach
But the sand seeps in and a crab creeps in
And I’ve become fastidious over time
I’m not the adventuress I used to be
I fear slugs and gnats and slime.
I’m…getting…older.
And those kitchen table quickies?
Now they’d be a lot more tricky
I guess it’s tough to be erotic
when the moving parts go sclerotic
Or late onset asthma makes you wheeze
when you even think about running naked through clover.
These days I much prefer a bed
Which makes me sad.
It’s those little losses that you grieve
In spite of which, I need to believe
It’s not over till it’s absolutely over.
No Regrets
About…
All the books that went unwritten
All the best boys gone unsmitten
Lazy days you didn’t work out
Crazy coughs you didn’t check out
Infidelities unsuspected
Secret bank accounts undetected
The Ph.D. you never earned
The second language barely learned
Seven wonders, you missed six
That broken heart you swore to fix
Those chocolate truffles you denied yourself
Those chocolate truffles you supplied yourself
Never golfed, never skied
Didn’t follow every lead
All the things you coulda shoulda
How would life be if you woulda?
Maybe better
Maybe worse
No one wants to take that bet.
That’s the curse of vain regret.
© Ann Privateer: Image0