Meeting Carlton in Elton John’s Bedroom.

The thrill of the chase
lit a fire in his pace
as he sped through the night
in a Thoroughbred’s race.

The cut of his cheek,
the blush of my own
the pre-packaged script
of two players alone.

The collar, the blouse
the curl of a smile,
how four tired feet
trod the well travelled mile.

With blisters and bruises
from love held, and lost
but in walking away,
my thoughts never tossed.

For this motor I have
cannot run on such fuel
and to act out of gain
would be false, wrong, and cruel.

To give freely of self,
no bars held or raised,
is the need of us humans
for each of our days.

To be cherished and wanted,
with faults plain in sight,
is the longing which lingers
through each of our nights.

Dear Carlton, I’m sorry
Sweet Carlton; adieu.
I am too old to lie,
so “to thine own self, be true.”

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