A friend sought my counsel just today
about what younger women think
about older men.
He was insistent; even emphatic,
that I share my thoughts,
and I reluctantly did.
I told him he shouldn’t be stupid, and think
that the years made no difference.
After all, a man in his mid-fifties
and a woman in her late twenties
is like comparing a 1980 Datsun 240Z
to a 2007 Porsche 911 Turbo Coupe.
He reminded me that the Z model held its own
for over thirty years, and
I conceded he had a point there, but
I asked him how old
he would be in 30 years,
and how old a 27-year old woman
would be 30 years from now.
The smile slipped, like a loose glove,
off my friend’s distinguished, but tired face.
My friend sighed and shook his head,
like a boxer taking a hard punch to the gut.
I didn’t mean to be cruel, but
I didn’t want my friend to be hurt.
Recovering more quickly
than I would have ever guessed,
he threw one back at me:
It doesn’t matter to me
if it lasts only a year, a month,
or even one amazing steamy hot night.
Just as long as our bodies are glued together
in seamless embrace,
swimming in each other’s wetness.
I tried to duck, but
his last punch lifted me off my feet
and onto the hard floor.
Trying my best,
I couldn’t get back up.