Old Man

Even in my basest instances of
perverted abstinence I must pity his
trite slant of impotence, the thrifty
glue all brothers and sisters are slave to.

The eye: the hand that bites
feeds and explores – in a
single digit, nails untrimmed,
the boring power of a depth drill: in
that single slant prototypes
are contained, an harrowing stretch of
paths to failure that his eye
comes in abundance, for within
that pulverizing crib sugar does not lack.

Zealous, even when dead on a living, his
crumpled hand shreds the innards of
his flannel's pockets, clawing at what
tonight he will dream of as my
thigh, whining in
contorted, humid pleasure
beside his sleeping wife.