Simple Flesh

Not the perfect aim of a professional knife thrower.

Or golden ticket wrapped ‘round a Wonka bar.

Certainly not false promises of national security

through fascist or any other kind of might.

Not position, possession, or power;

neither immortality nor fountain of youth.

No single bullet in answer to terminal diagnosis

or wooden stake in the midst of marauding vampires.

Not penning the most perfectest poetic phrase ever turned.

Not the winning Powerball ticket

after months, ney, years, of no winners.

Or everlasting offering of full body massages

by the most adroit of all masseurs.

Not endless poker chips

for the tables at Caesar’s Palace

or immunity to Kryptonite or

the secret recipe for either KFC

or the philosopher’s stone.

Not the rescue of steady tow truck

for the 3 AM flat on deserted stretch of highway.

Not brass lamp with genie of three wishes.

Not fame, not fortune, not physical fortitude.

Not breakfast in bed for a hundred days,

accompanied by the waft of the copious lilac

from the neighbor’s backyard.

All I wish for is

the simple flesh

of being with someone

I love

when the end

suddens.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston