On The Rocks

I don’t do coy. I’m a long way
from high school, but
I can bear the sagging of the flesh,
if I can still get my point across.
I choose words. My lover prefers
a blunter tool; expects me to bend over
to catch the tip of his thinking cap,
when the urge to express himself
slips in from behind.

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the view.
But, at my age, I feel the need
for a word or two, for clarity’s sake;
coins for Apollo’s tin cup.
Credit where it’s due, if anyone
could fuck his way out of those nasty home truths:
children too needy, no slippers by the fire?
He could. He who reaches up
and shakes the fear of death
from my animal soul, who scratches
the walls of doom, bursting them wide,
upending the sea inside.
But some rocks just cannot be got off.

Rocks in the cradle, rocks in the head,
rocks that block the path to the heart,
the liver, the marrow of the mind,
the shiny brass knuckle of compassion.
Now, there’s the wallop. The bang for your buck.
Talk to me. Talk to me. Talk to me. Talk to me.
I’m all ears, dripping with desire.
Keep silent and I might fill in my own voids.
It’s what we don’t hear that really screws us.