The Hard Pill

 
Before you know it
you'll be too old for the fly
and even writing  
will seem like a chore
but the terrible thing
the very worst thing
after shedding most of your hair  
cracking almost all of your teeth
and losing half of your mind
will be failing to perform
 
Even when Sunday's  
lightning strike whore
hikes her skirts high
wiggles her tushy in your face
and screams:  
Fuck my brains out, senor
Before she pins you  
like art to the wall
you'll apologize meekly  
fake a silly migraine
then ask her to come back  
mañana  
kind of hoping  
she's too offended to call
 
You'll realize the sadness
that knows her present  
can never revive your past
as you watch her pout at the door
sensational firm young flesh
and the softest jet black hair
gone to waste and flying nowhere
but the same crazy direction  
for us all