Caucasian heterosexual males have feelings too.

I don’t know whether I just joined The Club or whether I just renewed my membership and paid another year’s dues.

You know The Club, The Unrequited Love Club, wherein I give my heart to a woman old enough to be my daughter, maybe a granddaughter if my son were a breeder.

She’s intelligent, beautiful and loves dogs. She has sense enough to hold back not giving her heart to Gramps here. So I enjoy her openness as I wait to see what happens

She is in bed next to me. She is my wife. I bring her iced tea and soup and desserts.

Anything she wants.

Twenty five years ago we made love. I liked it. At least I had orgasms. She seemed excited. Did she have orgasms ? I don’t know.

Then we got married and we stopped making love. The silence and the sadness became like brick and mortar .

Maybe one day, I will find another lover.

Maybe…

I stayed up late to watch a train, headed to New York, the heart of Midtown.

I wished I were on it, headed to the Magic City, where people match money to talent, the world marvels at the sounds, the words, the pictures.

Can it happen in Richmond or Leesburg or Phillipsburg or Astor?

Maybe. But who looks there?

Like a monster in a Greek myth, reaching for me with tentacles, pulling me from the mast to which I’m lashed

This world is so safe , but it’s as tasteless as baby food. The cereal that’s mixed with formula.

Somewhere in Nairobi is the Weetabix factory that turns wheat into Weetabix. It’s like shredded wheat , only different. What would Jomo Kenyatta say, or those lean muscular distance runners who train at high altitude and then descend to sea level and whip everybody, usually white boys who want something to do before they go to medical school.

It’s just one of life’s mysteries.