I know that his balls are old under his brown
slacks. I know that his old charming ways
slither softer than ever before. I bet the hard morning air, where sex used
to greet young, fertile sex, now stings
blue.
I bet his bones pick up the slack
from the way he bent himself in his
twenty’s. I imagine he spent many hours
on all four’s, in preparation, for
salivation and conception.
All these things that he dashes off in pride;
the streets,
the actresses,
the cosmos,
must not make up, now, for the way his skin sags.
This must be why his poor, old tongue sags.
My grandfather told me that loose lips are the sign
of a boy, not a man.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 