Wanted
C.L. Warren

I saw you walk into the room
and my heart sank.
Deeply tanned, muscular, and on fire,
in a nano-second
I’m assaulted by your desire,
the carnal depravity of a boar in heat

Dancing to attract an uninterested female,
frantic to hide the stench of
galaxies of lies and deceptions.
Used to stealing undeserved sweetness,
your history clings to you
worse than your stale cologne.

You shove a poem into my hands,
the ramblings of a fractured soul
too ignorant to be ashamed.
I struggle for a civil response,
revolted by the assumption
that you can have a piece of me.

I resent your intrusion.
My time and energy are precious
and better occupied in cerebral conversation.
I have no interest in shallow, over-baked profligates.

Let me get this out of the way…
I can’t even remember what the poem was about
except that you want a woman, any woman…
you’ll take a woman, any woman…
you love a woman, any woman.

My friend asks, “doesn’t it feel good to be wanted
by young and old?”
Even liver is tolerable if you are dying of starvation,
but exploring minds, hearts, and souls is what I desire,
not the bestial cravings of a licentious stranger.

So go on racking up your empty conquests,
forcing yourself into places you don’t belong,
the last hurrah of a middle-aged bull.

Next time you’ll be back,
dressed up and drenched in even more stinky cologne,
while I run away screaming.
Put that in one of your poems.