My Last Love Poem

I want some swaggering,
cock-sure man
to write me a love poem,
to say thou and thee as
often as possible
and cliché up phrases  
such as breasts like ripe melons
and eyes bright as stars.
I want it to rhapsodize
about love everlasting
and toss in some lust, but

in truth, those love-sodden 
days have swept past me, 
the gate short-ended and barred.
My face is a road-map for aging,
my breasts, twin compasses to China.

Do I settle for rambling
about the old days, drag
out photos of this lover and that, list
how many times and ways we did it,
to bored dog and cat?

There must be another John Alden out there,
saving himself until now.

Perhaps I'll put an ad in the paper,
search noted bottles at sea, or
take out a pen and write
that sweet lusty poem, myself.

I'll dig out some Schumann, slip 
on my sexiest dress, lather chartreuse
onto nails, both fingers and toes.

I'll tape that poem
to my bedpost, carve
it into my headstone,
where bluebirds can flutter
and remaining friends sigh
she was adored to the end 
when my body makes love to the worms.



Pris Campbell
©2006


Art: Seated Nude by Janet Butler

    Click HERE to visit her website. A winner of many awards, Janet trained in the States, lived in Italy for a period of time and has now returned here to work. She works primarily with watercolours.

Return to Poetry Index I
Return to Homepage