This body, like an hour-glass, is not enough to contain his wants.
Intellect counts as nothing more than grains of sand, swept away
by a maelstrom of lust for a malleable woman.
Sometimes I wonder why this scenario replays each time I commit
to a relationship, entrusting him with a glass jar, squat and chipped,
yet more than adequate in times of need.
What moves him to opt for a junk shop flamingo, feathered in lurid pink?
When its head is so far removed from its body, it becomes
just another ornament above a hearth, gathering dust.
Maybe it’s this.
A fumbled plaything with its head jammed between its legs,
seems better than a solid vessel, refusing to pour oil,
when the attraction of gadfly to glue, has lost its tack.
©Talia Hardy 2015