I tire of the virgins
that tremble
on covers of dime and drug store novels

whose honor
carefully guarded
flutters between thighs

so eager to part

& the heroes
sickeningly predictable
bore with sardonic stares
& kisses that bruise

the pages turn
to premeditated sunsets
and orchestrated consummation

where doors politely close
for the sake of blushing matrons

with pink curlers
in their hair