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

A DESPERATE RESPONSE TO A DESPERATE POST

There is
a place
where only
you may go
for comfort
& madness.
You need
& desire
no others;
you crave
only
your own
need
& your hands
& your fingers
that are
educated
by that
need.
But do not
go there
now. Wait.
Wait
until
you begin
to
moisten.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

WORKING OUT THE MATH

A hundred,
she said.
I had
a fifty.

Give an old man a break,
I said.
You don't look that old,
she replied.
Depends on the part,
I said.

How old?
Six nine.
That is old,
she said.
Wait,
it's comin for you, too.
I ain't makin thirty.
You'll make it...
or maybe get lucky.

You sound like my father--
75, but that's it.

C'mon, I said,
I need to get away; escape
for ten or fifteen minutes.


OK fifty for fifteen;
if nothin's happenin
you use your hand.

I'll say a prayer.

Say two.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

BETTY, MY DEAR

You must tell me
if you really want me
to stop;
if it hurts
too much;
if you want
a tourniquet applied
where a torrent of words flow;
if you want to save
our minds
or our hearts?

The beasts
are in the
forests where
the prisoners
are hunted.
I would give them quarter
if I had change
of a dollar.

Instead,
I offer you safety
nestled
in a madman's glance.
You know,
of course,
I'm lying.

Come closer.
Yes, whisper.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016