My summer ended in July
Mama
Sometimes it’s Lou Reed,
and other times, happier ones,
it’s Ron Sexsmith or Belle
and Sebastian. One time, for a long time,
it was Urban Hymns by The Verve,
but it’s always—an even
longer time—
it’s you, mama.
My terrier
My terrier sleeps with me most nights
and whimpers when he has
nightmares. He reminds me of you
‘cause he doesn’t touch me during the night,
and I remind him of you
when I wake up very late, whimpering.
Happy
I won’t be happy
until you marry me. I suppose
this is my indirect way
of proposing to you. I will never
show you this poem.
Aging
You know you’re aging poorly
when following an afternoon shower
you go to look in the mirror but
stop yourself for a moment, gulping
the faintest taste of body wash.
Wrong things feel so good inside you.
Now you look, and you’re
grateful the glass is fogged up. You
dart outside in your towel
to watch yourself smoke a cigarette
though dripping wet hair.
Your neighbor is on her porch
trying to discern
the color of your teeth.
Sex
I’d love to have sex with you, really,
but if it was that simple
it wouldn’t be sex,
would it?