Aged WhoreMoans

Hunching over the community stair-climber,

She thinks about the new guy in the complex.

Fresh meat.

Good stuff.

Better than her last husband, surely.

Must quit smoking

He may not like smokers,

And besides, her lungs feel like they are going to collapse

With each step

As the machine drones on...

Quick! There he is, outside!

Her oversexed mind says Go to him; get him before one of the other tenants does. Hurry.

She sprints out of the gym, tripping over the doorjamb,

knocking her elbow on her way out.

“Hi. I’m Margaret; I’ve seen you around,” she pants.

Must quit smoking.

(Please don’t notice that I stopped working out just to run out here and throw myself at you).

Awkward pause

“Hi,” he says, shifting his eyes from right to left.

(This must be the one they warned me about).

She thinks he may find her sexy, standing there,

One plump roll hanging over her snug running shorts

And her breasts sagging in a battered sports bra that once may have fit.

Her pores exude desire.

Sweat thickened by rampant hormones that scream

“Screw me, screw me!”

She traces one crooked and slightly wrinkled finger

Over the excess skin of her neck

As though this drives him mad.

Panting, she desperately fumbles through conversation,

Peppered with niceties,

Unreciprocated by the new guy in 4A.

She wants to take him to bed.

He wants to leave.

Maybe the plumber down the hall won’t turn her down again.