sex

you confess
to your therapist,
Sheila,
that you think too much
about women
and sex.
you are obsessed
with legs
and arms, curves
and flashing eyes.
it's a curse
you say, since
childhood.
it gets worse not
less as the years
go by. you can see
yourself at ninety,
you tell her,
in the park, staring
madly at the women
going by in their
bright summer
dresses.
she says nothing,
she says hmmm. then
something like.
men. you wait,
continuing to stare
at the polished
black high heel
that she dangles
slightly off the tip
of her long
stockinged foot.
you wait for a response,
as she taps a pen
against her pad,
but she has
none. the clock ticks
on. you want to
avert your eyes,
but can't.