My Last Love Poem

I want some swaggering,
cock-sure man
to write me a love poem,
to say thou and thee
and cliché up phrases like
breasts like ripe melons
and eyes bright as stars.
I want him to rhapsodize
about love everlasting
and throw in some lust, but

I think those love-sodden
days have swept past me,
the gate short-ended and barred.
My face is a road map for aging,
breasts, a compass pointing south.

Do I settle for rambling
about the old days, drag
out photos of past lovers, list
how many ways we did it
to bored cat and dog?

There must be another John Alden out there,
saving himself until now.

I'll put an ad in the paper,
search noted bottles at sea, perhaps
take out a pen and write
that sweet poem, myself.

I'll dig out some Schumann, slip
on that special silk dress,
lather chartreuse onto nails,
both fingers and toes.

I'll tape the poem
to my bedpost, carve
it into my headstone,
where bluebirds can gather
and remaining friends sigh
she was adored to the end
when my body makes love with the worms.

.