My Next Lover
will be an old soul
strolling with Sinatra and Morrison hand in hand.
He’ll eat thick fat steaks medium rare with
only salt and pepper.
Not always polite, but always kind he will laugh when I trip over the top step.
And then his hand will grab my wrist.
He will be ardent and authentic,
as we laugh at pictures of cats, and the old people in
the mirror whose shape has been rounded
by half a century of devouring passion.
We’ll listen to the music and dance on
the waves, and he won’t be afraid of chasing
the randomness of the ripples of sound.
Because in time, we’ve heard it all.