I get world’s wisdom through my nose
and I’m too cool to snap my fingers.
I wear gloves, actually, because
my velvet-skinned hands are holy.
Here and there I’m forced to kiss
wet lips; the ladies approve.
They buy me drinks and show the goods.

Eventually, between two fixes, I might sit down
and play some sexy piano Jazz.

The truth, of course, is, that I’m nowhere near desire
when I come with fingers spread out on the keys.
I still need the warmth of your breasts and a downer
to make it into the night.
And you want me to keep the gloves on.

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