Tonight I watch a threadbare luna moth
exhaust herself: her tattered wings still fight
for lift, but greens intended to invite
have faded like a sun-bleached swatch of cloth.
Her week is ending, and age-related sloth
has slowed her pheromone release. No lips,
no mouth to call a mate, no partnerships.
She waits on fate and quivers in polite
performance. Then, your breath, my ear, the rush
to push you to the floor. We roll behind
the desk, you cursing that your zipper’s stuck,
me sure there’s not a condom near. I crush
the doubt, let body overrule the mind,
and spread my legs for more than just a fuck.