What trope is this,
That the old, wizened, simply submit,
Shedding skin and shutting out the sight
Of the melting candle lit.
Contraire! They still feel that whine
of seductive life blowing by,
Promising kisses and smooth skin.
In the mind, the memory of bare feet
In the sand retains its grittiness;
But life, pitiless, creates the mind's body,
A boardinghouse always in decline,
Leaving lips bereft.
Does the old heart believe
That the memory of that electric touch
Will still change the movie
From documentary to romance?
The young play; the old grieve.
Is it life to sit on a bench,
Next to the stench of old men
And laugh politely at yesterday's stories,
While powdered old ladies lean in
Singing hymns of past glories?
Restless desire inspires man's mortal heart
To resist this predestination, unchosen.
I long to dance, to sweat,
To feel, under the sun, the ripeness start.