Stages of the Affair

by
David Pascal

1

Nautilus girl, with thighs of tan,
Athwart the Nordic Track you stand,
Falcon of eye and steel of rump,
Panting, groaning, pump pump pump.
O do you know, athletic one,
You tense not your physique alone,
But stir the heart rate of another?
For as you moan, I would that I were
The iridescent pearl spandex
Gripping your buttocks as they flex;
I would I were the Hanes sweatbands
Gripping your hair-do's sweat-drenched strands;
I would I were the Nike shorts
That from my palms such sweat extorts;
I would I were the Reebok sneaks
Heaving your hips to peerless peaks.
Ah would mine ancient lips might press
Against your proud latissimus,
Your pecs, your abs, and wander free
Upon your --
                           no.  It cannot be.

My thin biceps dare not enfold hers,
My eyes not drink her Nazi shoulders,
My grey tongue not her tongue befoul,
My aged hands not her torso towel,
My grizzled senior lips not beg her --
Her boyfriend's built like Schwartzeneggar.

2

Shall I compare you, not to a summer's day,
But to Princess Di or a classic Perrier?
Shall I concede you're fifty times more fine
Than "Back In Baby's Arms" by Patsy Cline?
Shall I cry out your eyes, your hair, evoke
More sparkling-sweet a brown than Cherry Coke?
Or that your sexy smile is sexier than
Paris Vogue?  Oh, as for those girls on
Victoria's Secret?  Compared to you, they're boys.
They're mutts!  Chihuahuas!  Airedales!  Pomeroys!
Compared to you -- my God. The whole world's dust.
My poems too. Oh, I write because... I must.
But when nothing in all the world compares to you,
Who gives a damn what I compare you to?

3

The love I though I'd never lack
Now smells like a really old Big Mac.

Our flesh was twined, our souls were knit!
Now she considers me dog shit.

O it was once my heart's éclair
To join our scraggly pubic hair.

Now all that's dead as Elvis.  Man,
I'll never fall in love again.