In her fifties, she still has Marilyn Monroe's playboy image.
She runs on the treadmill, with round firm breasts
and long legs to make angels weep.
Somehow we connect though I'm not a gay dancer
and good listener who knows he's not as handsome
as one of the Kennedy cousins
who never quite stepped on the White House lawn.
I can only guess she's a retired dancer herself.
I don't teach or publish anything substantial enough
to replace what luxury she dearly enjoys.
Though I give her examples of the pleasure of pain.
She masturbates herself when I say I'm hotter
than a city summer night on top of her now.
She tells me she's miserable, and lonely, and sleeps
in a separate bedroom a wing away from her husband.
He writes scholarly criticisms and historical novels.
He gives her a happy life raising their three kids,
who also respect and admire him.
She doesn't need any constipated married poet
to drive four or five hours to the Connecticut woods
to obviously upset the beauty sleep she has
with a big house, and an investment banker on the side.
She's bored by guys who want to give up
all for a few minutes with her golden hair and smile.
