Porn store
by Gail
Five minutes under the glaring lights
before the horse-sized dildoes
and I'm back to consumer mode,
evaluating cost-per-inch ratios,
wet spot drying on my cotton briefs.
I'm shrink-wrapped like the merchandise,
cruising the aisles studded with shots
of frozen sex, posed and artificial.
I plant myself like a post in front
of the racks and survey it all.
Any jolt to my crotch and I
consider purchasing the cause.
On the subway I rate legs
and bulges, but at home
I toss the bag in the bedroom
closet, reach for the zipper
of my husband's jeans.
His awakening phallus
has the thrill that wasn't
for sale in the store:
scent and taste of flesh, of him,
spice and fruit, sweaty,
in full working order.
