IT STILL WORKS

I called a hooker number
last night. She was happy
to hear from me,
she said. (I would like to think
that was not part of the act.)
Lucky, for me
she was free.
It's not all that often anymore
that desire is in synch
with the gods of availability.
I had enjoyed her company
and her other gifts
from the first time we met
and was willing to wait
for the stars to align.

I asked her over
and after some easy chitchat
we got down
to business.
I was easy; an old man
makes few requests
and even less demands.
But I was a hard nut to crack;
age and medical issues
with my hardheadedness
to heed the warnings of doctors & priests
made endings more difficult to get to--
but that was what she signed up for.
We worked & worked--
she doing most of the working;
as we teased & explored
with a practiced easiness
that, viewed from a distance,
could be mistaken for love.

Afterward,
we exchanged pleasantries
& promised to get together
sometime soon.
Her lovely perfume
trailed behind her
as the door closed.
I was satisfied
& pleased
that my dick,
looking much like a wrinkled spigot now,
still worked...and yet sad
that it wasn't the thrill
of a time gone by
when I was body & soul in love
with a girl from above
the north border
and tumbled & tumbled
into each other
and never gave a shit
whether it worked
or not.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019