- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Oregone
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It lasted eighty-eight days
and two hours
to the exact minute,
since our initial contact.
Eighty-eighty days,
like the smooth keys of a piano,
as I struggled
to find her middle C.
Eighty-eighty days
of bliss, tears, semen,
laughter and nectar,
all pouring like a waterfall.
Eighty-eight days
that shine brilliantly
amongst forty-four years
of disappointment and lonelines.
Eighty-eight days
will form the foundation
for all my future anguish
and remorse through many dark nights.
Eighty-eight days
which are now relegated
to my ex-files
and my brief shining glory.
Eighty-eight days
have become the yardstick
that all women from this moment
must forever measure up to.
