I hope my good old ******* holds out
60 years it's been mostly OK
Tho in Bolivia a fissure operation
     survived the altiplano hospital--
a little blood, no polyps, occasionally
a small hemorrhoid
active, eager, receptive to phallus
     coke bottle, candle, carrot
     banana & fingers -
Now AIDS makes it shy, but still
     eager to serve -
out with the dumps, in with the ******'d
     ******* friend -
still rubbery muscular,
unashamed wide open for joy
But another 20 years who knows,
     old folks got troubles everywhere -
necks, prostates, stomachs, joints--
     Hope the old hole stays young
     till death, relax

                                        March 15, 1986, 1:00 PM

The phone crazed against its plastic receiver.
Tossing her clippers on the counter
with an exasperated sigh, she picked up.

"Mary's."

She began to pace around her paisley-floored
salon when she read the Caller ID.
Crosby General Hospital

The cord stretched further across the room
with each diagnosis like a tightrope that was
threadbare from decades of grim news and heartbreak.

A single thread kept her composure.

When word came across that her daughter
had died, the wire snapped and her faced turned
scarlet like she was crying barbicide.

I catch myself thinking about your lips, again.
And one particular smile; I find it mesmerising.
Wryness and sadness and resolute strength,
That gentle smile, that almost smile, that 'shall I...?' smile.
There's a no-surrender steel to your stare, a hardness
In the set of your shoulders, the tension in your neck,
But your lips are all softness and so, so sweet
I imagine them to be; a piquant sweetness,
Mixed spice, vanilla and burnt sugar.
I catch myself thinking about your lips, again,
And wishing I could taste them.
My fingers to my own, I gently ****,
And lose myself in a cinnamon dream.