Here is a poem about the male mid-life prolapse, which is when a man’s brain threatens to fall into his underpants.
The empty restaurant holds no awe for them,
enclosed within the aura of their words
they dine on chosen portions of their lives.
Her starter was a young divorce
his an early marriage, which survives,
and holds him tighter with the years.
Her portion seems more generous,
not stifled by constricting norms.
An armory of cutlery covers the cloth
but they are disarmed by traded truths.
Is this a sharing beyond friendship,
a need to feel the edge,
diminution of rage
or honest hunger?
Uncertain of the course
he asks for the menu………
