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<span style="font-style: italic">Saw this in my newspaper today. It's written by a Canadian poet named <span style="font-weight: bold">Lorna Crozier.</span> It's a tribute to mature lovers. Fi all the young lovers out there who wonder what it will be like when you're old.</span>
Who wants to hear about
two old farts getting it on
in the back seat of a Buick,
in the garden shed among vermiculite,
in the kitchen where we should be drinking
Ovaltine and saying no? Who wants to hear
about 26 years of screwing,
our once-not-unattractive flesh
now loose as unbaked pizza dough
hanging betwen two hands before it's tossed?
Who wants to hear about two old lovers
slapping together like water hitting mud,
hair where there shouldn't be
and little where there should,
my bunioned foot sliding up your bony calf, your callused hands
sinking in the quickslide of my belly
our faithless bums crepitus, collapsed?
We have to wear our glasses to see down there!
When you whisper what you want I can't hear,
but do it anyway, and somehow
get it right. Face it,
some nights we'd rather eat a
Haagen-Dazs ice cream bar
or watch a movie starring Nick Nolte
who looks worse than us.
Some nights we'd rather stroke the cats.
Who wants to know when we get it going
we're revved up, like the first time - honest -
like the first time, if only we could reemmber it,
our old bodies doing what you know
bodies do, worn and beautiful
and shameless.
Who wants to hear about
two old farts getting it on
in the back seat of a Buick,
in the garden shed among vermiculite,
in the kitchen where we should be drinking
Ovaltine and saying no? Who wants to hear
about 26 years of screwing,
our once-not-unattractive flesh
now loose as unbaked pizza dough
hanging betwen two hands before it's tossed?
Who wants to hear about two old lovers
slapping together like water hitting mud,
hair where there shouldn't be
and little where there should,
my bunioned foot sliding up your bony calf, your callused hands
sinking in the quickslide of my belly
our faithless bums crepitus, collapsed?
We have to wear our glasses to see down there!
When you whisper what you want I can't hear,
but do it anyway, and somehow
get it right. Face it,
some nights we'd rather eat a
Haagen-Dazs ice cream bar
or watch a movie starring Nick Nolte
who looks worse than us.
Some nights we'd rather stroke the cats.
Who wants to know when we get it going
we're revved up, like the first time - honest -
like the first time, if only we could reemmber it,
our old bodies doing what you know
bodies do, worn and beautiful
and shameless.
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