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Art Appreciation

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It’s the red lips,
rouged cheeks,
the curled black hair
falling on perfect neck
and shoulders,
long bare legs
straddling the chair
in the boudoir
that makes me rest
my chin on top my hands
which themselves are resting
on the handle of my cane.
There’s no ardent urge, no fervor
for a sexual encounter—
I’m too old for that pleasure.
My pleasure comes
with the simplicity of seeing
something unlike myself,
a foreign entity
from some faraway fabled planet
who has the ability to create in me
a perpetual longing.

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