Your back is to me:
freckled, aging,
strangely and unacceptably vulnerable.
So I stroke gently,
fingertips tracing  neck, collarbone,
shoulder, the knobs of your spine
down, down below the blanket
to the cleft of your backside,
again and again.


You sigh and murmur
a string of sleep-dowsed syllables
as you turn to me,
slide arms and legs under and around
and pull me tight against you.

The bones of your skull press against my cheek.
I feel the roughness of your beard,
the warmth of your breath.
The needfulness in you
lulls me to false and forgetful security
and I hold you hard.

Stupid me.

Your body twitches – restless, resisting.
The sounds you make now are feral,
displeasure coming
from a place below words.
You push yourself away
to lie, sprawling, on your back.

But still.

Your arm is around my shoulders and
again you pull me close and snug.
I reach for your not-quite-soft cock,
stroke it the way you have taught me,
cajole it to impatient hardness.

But you decline my invitation,
yawning and stretching into wakefulness
and dropping a kiss on my forehead
before you roll out of bed
to get ready for your date.


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Filed under poetry, the Man

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