If I met the same women now
I probably wouldn’t know them.
They’re missing teeth, I bet,
and have gray Medusa hair.
Their eyes no longer dance, I’m sure,
and they have liver spots everywhere.
They likely wobble in their flats
and haven’t worn heels
since adding fifty pounds.
Some of them, I’m certain,
wouldn’t recognize me, either,
despite thick spectacles.
They can’t recall the picnics
we enjoyed with wine and caviar
under oak trees in Grant Park,
never mind the nights that followed.
Who needs a woman that forgetful?
I need a younger woman now,
someone I can finally marry,
a girl with a figure like Monroe,
Hepburn’s eyes and Hayworth’s hair,
someone lithe, slim and graceful,
someone strong enough to push
my wheelchair up the ramp.