Second to Nun

On the way to performing poetry
she turns and asks, “So,
do you want to hear my latest revision?
Or about my incredible sex life?”
A bear-shitting-in-the-woods thought
thwacks me. "DUH," I say.

So she begins. No nitty gritty details.
I have enough imagination for that.
Can't concentrate on my driving, though,
for which she scolds me over and again.
Hey, it's her fault for getting down with a man.
Anyway, I don't get it.  We are fifty-somethings.
She's attractive, certainly, vivacious, smart.
Her posture is excellent, her eyes interesting.
She's got a figure.

Still, she's so soft-spoken,
sometimes I can barely hear her.
She thinks I'm not listening.
That's not it.  She has a tiny voice,
a chaste voice, I might even say.
She moves with such grace,
like a lady.
There's something fragile about her.

She leads a healthy lifestyle, grows
her own food, exercises, has no bad habits,
is so seemingly, well, good.
This prim lady, yes, that's the word,
somehow prim, like a nun, suddenly wants
to compare her bedroom  history with mine.
I say eight.  She herself has lost count.
What the....?  I can't believe it!

Especially while driving, and now, by night.
We laugh a lot but I'm dying of envy.
The darkness is all green.
I have an urge to drink green, to piss green.
Tomorrow when it's yellow or gray or
whatever, I'm off to buy sensible shoes,
maybe have my vocal cords severed,
then stop at a chiropractor who might be able
to adjust every one of my postures.

Copyright Julie K. Shavin 2009