I don't write much poetry
anymore. This is the first
in a long while - or
maybe it's the last forever.
I have no way of knowing.
All I do is think and breathe
and eat and sleep and bathe
myself after making love
with the butcher's son, who
knows nothing of poetry.
He knows steaks and chops
and loins, and how to grind
and wrap and tie. That boy.
But nothing of poetry.
His hands are soft, his fingers
sometimes stained with blood.
He smells like fresh-killed meat.
And his death-defying lovemaking
keeps us awake all night...
We speak in whispers before
the dawn calls him to his work.
And I don't write poetry anymore.