An Old Mark Anthony in an Ybor City Bar

I'm dying, Egypt.  Cleo, I haven't been stabbed
Or poisoned.  I have three food tasters.  Two died.
One lived.  I drank the wine of the one who was alive.
I'm dying, Egypt.  The killer is not an army, but old age.
Cleo, it is your breasts, small waist, red hair
That makes me want to live.  Cleo, I'm too self-conscious
About being a ruin of time, the skin has started to drop
On my jawbones, my neck skin sags, I have
A new wrinkle that spirals between my lips and nose, 
Yes, too self conscious of my ugliness to confess
To someone as young, as beautiful, as sensual  as you
That I desire to lick your body with my aged tongue.
Cleo, I get tongue-tied when we meet discuss politics,
Not tongue-tied about politics, for I can talk and talk
About the government.  But I didn't come here to talk
About politics. But as I verbalize in a verbose and prolix manner,
I never say what I want to say.  I never say
I want to hold you naked in my old, skinny, wrinkled arms.



(C) Copyright November, 1999
Duane Locke
All Rights Reserved