the second coming of my adolescence
(Is this what they call a midlife crisis?)
to be downstairs under the bar--cement and sweat surroundings, with
music tunneling through our crowded movements; a pulse of our collective wanting more,
and aching to use the furniture for something it was meant for (because it looks clean enough, not that I'm asking for much) if only I could find your features and shapes in the endless shade
these men's urgent eyes on my bodypenetrate--young and younger--my hips are displaced
       as if I'm on display for you (and only)
I'm lost and languishing
in the wishing and washing of it all

and
easiness of my holding out
(not long)

in your endless grip