The hand that squeezes mine is mottled with
liver spots, yet your fingers fumble like
a child to release my bowling ball breasts.
I tell you age is just a stat, you’re good
at Math, you taught for years. I know because
I sat in front of you for two of them.
Shirtless, you are ursa major, a great
bear, with a mat of hair the colour of
the smokey grey carpet that your wife chose.
I pull down your Christmas shorts, printed with
planets, then eyes wide as galaxies, cunt
in shock, I climb aboard your rocket cock.
