For Ashfaque
Someone is beating down my door
He has a rise, well-concealed, in his pants
Graduating from bike-riding to cars
He badly needs a wife
I'm old Father Jonah
in bed with my fish-belly
Floating in a sea of sperm-jelly
Boys smell a good fish
I'm old Riot; the Festival
I'll never age
like good wine and good swine
I get better; more full-bodied
All boys love a riot
They smell women behind my door
Each according to his fantasy
I, old Polonius, behind the arras
am the mouse Hamlet kills in sport
The children smell me out
But the Church's shadow falls
over the land at high noon
Blighting the lives of youths
Nine years of longing before marriage
Are nine years too many
I draw curtains / dim lights
Arrange a setting
for dimmer and dimmer loves
Ah! Great Love where have you flown?
And all today's youth know
To turn on lights / tear down curtains.