you didn’t come as your youthful self,
my fun, faithful friend.
Instead, bald, broad, and bellied you asked,
your hard question against my thigh:
Respect, I said,
Squeamish at your leer.
You lowered your voice to that super serious tone
I remember so well.
So much doubt.
Even in my dreams I’m over this.
good riddance to bad rubbish.
I will boldly comment where no one has yet commented.
Your poem resonates with the complications of growing older and trying to remain intimate/relevant/interested/interesting/desirable. As a long time spouse, we have struggled with these issues as our bodies, minds and chemistry have changed. Unfortunately, these are difficult topics to discuss, and although one would think that familiarity would make talking easier, too often it doesn’t. Signals are misread, discord develops, feeling are hurt and the relationship suffers. There have been times when I, and I’m sure my wife, have wondered if we would ever be intimate again. It challenges ones ego, both parties I would assume (at the risk of making an ass out of u & me). You made a powerful statement about the reality of how we change and the differences between how we perceive and navigate our intimate relationships as we mature. BTW, I’m not defending the fella depicted above!
It’s always interesting to hear what readers find between the lines.
Thanks for sharing your take! True words, all.
This poem was actually response to a quite literal dream (hence the title) featuring someone I used to dream about (far more positively) in my youth. Funny what our subconscious reveals!
What it means to me is mine. What it means to you is yours. I appreciate hearing what you found.