At 5 p.m. one afternoon I said to myself
it’s time to bake my potato
and couldn’t think why it sounded dirty.
I had been reading Kim Addonizio
and wanted to talk to her about orgasms
how it doesn’t matter
once you’re past eighty
unless you have a young lover
which I don’t, and don’t want
I had a friend
whose lover was younger than her kids.
She had to pick up after him.
Of course, it’s the same with the old ones
who won’t pick up their wet towels
or wait for my orgasm.
Living alone, baking potatoes,
setting the table for one,
I bless this harsh freedom, no one
to pass me the sour cream.
Pass me the sour cream, I say to myself.