The fruits
     of living
take time
     to ripen.

cops beating my door
the last strawberry now tastes
sweetest of all

Monica,
she said her name was.
Of course I didn't believe her,
but it wasn't important.

What was important,
when she met me
with a cheery professional
smile
at the window
in the waiting room
of Anfu Massage,
was that she was
willing
to take me by the hand
and lead me
down the very dim corridor
into a dimly lit room
with a bed
where she and I shared
an hour of
******
pleasure.

She made me feel
like a great lover
and gave me her best
imitation of passion
so skillfully
that I believed,
because I wanted to,
for that hour
that I was
making love
to my lover.

I used to agonize
and feel guilty about it,
but in this solitary
autumnal season
of my life,
haunted
by the ghosts
of loves lost,
I am grateful
for even this
sweet counterfeit.

And, yes
I revel
in her gentle feminine
warmth,
her softness,
and in the primal
connection
we make.

Somehow, it
feels like
it is keeping my heart
alive.

Love loves
like heart got
just don't know,
hear ain't
oh night lost,
eyes silent.

moon dream,
want baby.
sea kiss,
time away,
home blues.

One piece of punctuation would
end this poem as it should:
a "." would make it good--
that is, at least I think it could

When writing haiku
do you always count it out
on your fingers too?