Crazy is as crazy does, love, what does it say, that we no longer
There was a time we could not keep our hands off each other,
when 'get a room' made us smile & our hands entwined
making love as we walked, sun glinting in the glistening sheen
of their ardor.
I sit, iron frame park bench with wood slats numbing my nether
regions, hopefully not causing permanent damage. A man, handsome,
stylish, his wife beside, but no b-side, if you know what i mean, but
no need to touch. An older couple slowly makes their way in para-
llel lines, age matters little, except the teens who reinact the fall
of Rome on each other at the end of my bench. I take my stubby
pencil out to keep track of how many people touch as they pass.
More often than not they separate each going their own way, want-
on desires and no intention of watch-ing her try on 54 shades of blue in
the same dress to find the one that reduces the size of her (things you
should not mention unless you have a great affiny for the couch
& Rosey, no not O'Donnell, get serious) ass-ets.
This is tragic! Satelites traverse one an-other butt orbits degrade, chick-
en little screams within me, trying to force his way up my throat, "The
sky is falling! Can't you see! Where is the intimacy? Act like you can
at least tolerate her pre-sence much less that you actually have feeling
still simmering on the stove top."
Stuffing the bare-ly marked journal page in my back pocket, hand
trying to curl up in a protective ball, projecting its feelings inward,
whimpers about needing you and people dying in the desert from
lack of water. Me, wanting to say 'hand, be a man', don't, in touch
with my feelings and all, so we cuddle and i talk to it about good
old days, when PDA meant something,
until you finally emerge from within the bathroom and with complete
disregard for how well washed yours may be, desperation gripping,
grasp it palm on palm, raising it exultantly above my head and make
that diner scene in When Harry Met Sally seem tame, YES,
YES, oh YES!
People stare, but frankly, your face a bit Scarlet, I don't give a damn,
and i can tell you don't either, because even after the comments to
perfect strangers on my need for psychotropic medication,
you don't pull away.
written for imperfect prose