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R.S. Gwynn

R. S. Gwynn

Photo courtesy of the author

Before Prostate Surgery

Farewell, thou joy of my right hand, my toy;
My sin was too much use of thee, old boy—
At least the old wives’ tales would have it thus,
And I am too downcast to raise a fuss
Or much of anything, to put it simply.
Now from the ashes of my hot and pimply
Youth and each profligate misspent erection
I bid thee rise to spiritual perfection.
Say, “Here I lie, the truest poem of Sam,
No epic but a passing epigram.”
And pray, that in the deft hand of a lover
From death to life we might thee yet recover.

Leda (from “Afterwords”)

II. Leda

Sudden is right. No chilled cold duck. No flowers.
No Hallmark cards or even e-mail waiting,
And I’d requested superhuman powers.
I tell you, girls, it really gets frustrating—
Six seconds max when you’d made plans for hours
Of just a little special time together—
A goose, a pinch, a poke, then toppling towers
And nothing for a keepsake but a feather.

I mean, I wanted a relationship,
The whole shebang, no severed arm or leg
Or marble torso hacked off at the hip.
Trust me, I’m not the kind who likes to beg,
Only it’s really hard to get a grip
When all your best-laid plans have laid an egg.