Poetry XI.

Dissipation Prescribed

All I want to do is sleep away the afternoon,

after fucking your warm body all morning on the musty futon in the den.

I'll wake up sleepy eyed in the evening as the nightly news broadcast starts,

and think about those strong calloused hands, their gentle caress.

Why I get you in the mornings never seems to faze me,

as I close my eyes at the stroke of noon you lock the door behind you;

I disregard the truth and dream of dawn approaching.