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.