writing the same old thursday poem
about an upcoming saturday date
and, lovely reader, we both wait
for an inevitable cynicism of sunday morning

after whole fish and white wine
we'll trace the intricacies of center philly
with four anxious feet, talking silly
until we end up in my bed
satisfied but empty
from the mix of sweat and cold
of the air conditioner hum
that's barely there and yet is brutally bold

i've been with just enough women
to suspect i've been wrong
searching for someone that didn't belong
standing out like a cactus
in an air conditioned room
yet sure in herself, like the writing on a tombstone

maybe they don't make them
like they used to before the war
or maybe i could've found her, if only i searched a little more
but the years are flying, and the desert is dry
in such storm-ridden weather, life's too short for cacti