The Lover

The lover, bold beyond his years,
loved when she held him by his ears,
as in their lovely mingling place,
he kissed her as he washed his face.
For ever he'd have stayed down there,
but for his need to rise for air.
And at the end when they both rose,
up from their lust to put on clothes,
he saw within her looking glass,
his naked image, sagging arse,
and knew his past did best his future.
Or they don't make mirrors like they usedter.

poem by Red O'Mara
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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