My belief that sex on its own is like

carrying around a thigh bone and calling it a leg

doomed me as a cruiser. Never slutted it up,

and at 64 (happy birthday to me), it's too late

to go to the bar and ask a beautiful woman

if she'd like to spend a night and then a life

with me. Plus I'd have to gather and staple

the skin at the back of my neck to pull the skin

under my chin tight, otherwise I'd appear

to have a face and a half, and not all of me

heading in the same direction. And I'd have to take Eve

with me, ask her opinion on the faces and bods,

dresses and expressions. I was also never

a tightrope walker, bank teller, anteater, résumé,

cul-de-sac, minor god in a forgotten pantheon,

and am suddenly nostalgic for all the things

I never did or was. I think what I'm getting at

is this is the wrong life. I always wanted to be

the feeling of walking out of a bar

after two drinks into cold air and stars,

turning west, toward home, seeing an orange cat

cleaning itself on the hood of a Deuce and a Quarter,

followed by a minute or two of wanting nothing

for or thinking anything about the self, my mind

for once looking through a clean window at the world.

No offense to anyone, my penis included,

but that feeling was the best sex I ever had.

However, the end of desire can't be desired,

only stumbled into or given by some moments as a gift.

So I'm not asking you to turn me into that sensation

on my birthday, god, or promising to believe in

and love you if you do. I'm not saying that

or anything like that, though I'll note that you have

about eighteen hours left. I promise to act surprised

when I open the box of wanting nothing more

than I already have.

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