On the Prospect of a New Lover

On the Prospect of a New Lover

The town librarian passes my books across his scanner.
A lingering moment. His eyes make my breasts feel ripe.

I wear the yellow sundress my ex-husbands label indecent.
Made of sheer nylon, it is highly inflammable.

He asks me out, his stutter like a soft peach sluicing
my chin with juice. I am easy when it comes to younger men.

This time, I make a mental note, my poetry books have
to be relocated in the bottom drawer with the vibrator;

there is no point in sending him to sleep. If he drools
over the pages, I'm not sure if I can wipe away the stains:

a mediocre writer hates being misunderstood. I am too old
to sulk, wear the dunce cap while sweating over the sex act.

We all have our faults. He may be lactose intolerant
with a preference for amateur recordings of Bach fugues.

I should like to get along with someone for once, wear
his shirts to work, share dessert with the same spoon.