Pillows and Socks

Older is not purer, nor
Better, but it tends
Towards greater circumspection,
At least among the poor wise.

We who have not yet been cured
Of memory’s viruses
Remember what it was like
To have been frightened when young,

Finding oneself the pilot
Of a body desperate
To wreck itself by crawling
Across some other body,

To have been adolescent,
To have sought the soft comfort
Of the inanimate, plumped
Up or hollow, just for us.

Now we know embarrassment
Is a kind of time capsule
Can be delayed for decades
In public or can be shared

In private but can never
Be separated
From simple, physical lust,
Life’s merciless wish for touch.