by J. D. McClatchy

    It's over， love.  Look at me pushing fifty now，

    Hair like grave-grass growing in both ears，

    The piles and boggy prostate， the crooked penis，

    The sour taste of each day's first lie，

    And that recurrent dream of years ago pulling

    A swaying bead-chain of moonlight，

    Of slipping between the cool sheets of dark Along a body like my own， but blameless.

    What good's my cut-glass conversation now，

    Now I'm so effortlessly vulgar and sad？

    You get from life what you can shake from it？

    For me， it's g and t's all day and CNN.

    Try the blond boychick lawyer， entry level

    At eighty grand， who pouts about the overtime，

    Keeps Evian and a beeper in his locker at the gym，

    And hash in tinfoil under the office fern.

    There's your hound from heaven， with buccaneer

    Curls and perfumed war-paint on his nipples.

    His answering machine always has room for one more Slurred， embarrassed call from you-know-who.

    Some nights I've laughed so hard the tears Won't stop.  Look at me now.  Why now？

    I long ago gave up pretending to believe Anyone's memory will give as good as it gets.

    So why these stubborn tears？  And why do I dream

    Almost every night of holding you again，

    Or at least of diving after you， my long-gone，

    Through the bruised unbalanced waves？