What do I actually want?, I wonder,
Old man in a gift shop, spying the clerk
Look me over with arched-eyebrowed
Flicker of interest.  She seems barely
Grown.  Perhaps she is twenty.
Slender, good-looking, a woman
Worth leading through boutiques
And jewelry stores, road houses,
Beds.  Would she go?  That's unlikely,
And, honestly, how many hours
Would it take to make me lose
Interest, as she overwhelmed me
With that sort of babble which
Young men with greater endurance
And urges seem willing to suffer,
The price of a prize they're convinced
They should have?  Chances are,
I would hurry to take her back home,
And then ponder, alone, on the drive
To my own, what I thought I had
Wanted.  I also would wonder what
She could have wanted from me.