Men

when I see the aged men
in long coats,
the cross hatched stitches
of life and stress
upon their faces,
grey and smoking, legs crossed
on the benches in
central park, glancing at the young
women running by, I can't help
but think that
it's a blessing and a curse,
this drive,
this sensuality
that appears
in early boyhood, and goes on
into the years,
even now, hardly a day
passes without
giving it thought. does
the world
truly revolve around this?
there's a strange almost
insatiable
urge
to be in love, to have
intimacy.
men wear it on their sleeves,
it's in their eyes,
it's coded in the language
of their smile.
it's primitive in a way,
a craving, an appetite
for the opposite.
you wonder when, or if it
will ever wane.