For P.B.
This guy down at the paddle tennis courts
Hit seventy-seven, enjoys women,
And, truth be told, he’s kept thin, still cavorts,
Works out, eats carefully, pursues his whims
Despite the years. That hair, once flaming red,
Now silver-touched; he’s lost a step or two,
And yet retains the charm that lured, then led
And bedded scores of women deftly wooed.
I watched him work blonde Robin, young, zaftig—
Responsive, seemingly amenable
Nicely curved, interested, not a prig—
Open, willing perhaps, though not quite keen.
His mind, his bones, his warm heart blooming lust—
Alas, without hot blood the quest’s a bust.
(4/23/10)