Loving the Older Woman!
To My Favorite Professor
I’m sorry about your hip, Professor Graham!
But please,
don’t ever say that what we have is lust!
It can’t be; it can’t!
Your hair is neon white;
Your body sags like trashbags
and your titties
are at your knees.
Well, who cares?
I look nothing like
Rock Hudson
or Jimmy Stewart,
and my penis
is two inches long.
I mean to say, I love you, baby.
More than anything.
You are my wrinkled rainbow.
You are my
wet shoppingbag
filled with premium roast beef.
Tonight,
I will follow your varicose veins
up-up-up-UP!
up to pure, wet toad ecstasy if you let me.
I will draw our names
in the black dust of your ashtray.
I will use that leg-sling
to my advantage.
I will get a new cat
and name him Mr. Brylcreem
or Mr. Polydent Plus or Mr. William H. Taft.
Then
we’ll have some hot water
and tapioca pudding
and I’ll rub Vick’s Vaporub
down your boney spine.
Then I’ll let you do me.
And baby, those hands…
Baby, your fingers
are so much like loving eels
You only say that you love me.
Prove it to me all over again,
would you?
Show me again why you still wear those black Stilettos
and six-inch skirts,
even after they replaced your hip.
Show me again how things were done
before the invention
of lubrication
and
the missionary position
Please me, Professor!
Know that I am that sort of fool!
I would sell my soul
for another round with you
on the lab tables.
Just
remember that this
is not lust, Ma’am.
I know I’m in love;
I may be only a freshman
but I know I’m in love!
I mean,
I’m only vaguely excited
when you talk about the reproductive system.
And everything that slops through your dentures
creates that Old Testament magnetism
So now, let’s go…elope with me,
I’ll bring your walker and oxygen tank
and
I’ll show you things
that only the
internet
can teach.