Anchors

Thoughts like discreet whores,
spreading legs so they can
fly. They are the wing'ed kind, that float
above the bed. Making marks on the ceiling

with their heels. Their love is a buzzing
sort that makes us feel 15 again.
We hurry home for a handjob
from our first loves, awkward and a little

painful. After, when we sit
on the stone steps with knees shaking,
we wait to part. The Great Pick-Up.
Why do we long for friends' backyards?

They do not seem to recognize our larger
frames. Our deeper voices. The new scents
and costumes we've adopted. But, still --
we want the tradition like never before.

This is what happens in dirty warehouses,
when the world outside is warm and bright like
it used to be. We can fool ourselves, playing pool
in the basement. Sneaking glances at the girls

in the still-damp bikinis, waiting for a miracle
like age or money to make us magnetic. Grills
and bicycles and discarded mediums of self
expression keep us hopeful and all la-la-la.