Dirty old man, lucky old man;
she must be younger than
any
daughter you may once
or more have had.
Now
self-conscious,
you read my face
from a corner of your
eye,
from along a crowded bar.
“Time to go,” I
see you mouth,
before she
follows in her
most dutiful manner,
gazing straight
ahead.
Dirty old man, sad
old man,
holding on to insecurity
so tight
for as long as you
can.
Just wait until the
day
you become too infirm,
in any sense
of that word.