buckets of it, the bill through the roof
the whole wide world drying up
no real excuse for the poverty it inflicts
But morning and night
back to the same routine.
You step outside and a week’s work is gone
before you could enjoy it
Sex won’t fix it.
Young men offering chest and thigh to take the edge off
but you don’t want to warm up, not really
You want to simmer. To scald.
Hours a day, your morning run can’t cut it
severe enough just till you stop moving
Then it’s back in
dull skin becoming burnt and pink again
Don’t give me what I don’t want,
don’t assume absence represents a lack.