Paying for Love

Moonlight is hazardous in my profession,
falling for free across your arms and lap,
falling for free on the shipboard and cheeks.

I am weakened by the perfect moon,
but a man with a purchased royal title
will die broke with a soft heart

I’m one of those racing greyhounds
useless if retired, useless if old age
finds me reading the Post-Intelligencer
with a magnifying glass.

I feel thoughtful tonight, my petulant,
quarter-lip smile is upside down,
but like the moon, it will pass quickly.

I can only think what women will expect.
A guitar on indolent summer nights,
boat rides, original love letters on vellum
and a tight fitting toreador suit.

I can imagine a request for languorous
talk and sermons that furrow the brow
and cut lines of self-doubt at the mouth.

Tonight, I am saying the truth, moved
to weeping by a sky of wasping stars
and a cascade of colored ball gowns
braced underneath by almost private silk.

Swirling women, painted and anxious
to kiss, to stain collars and undue ties,
to sink teeth inches deep into pleasure.

Bernard Henrie