Nowhere Near Hudson’s Bay

Toggle me up
on one last vanity flight
half drunk on a screw-top frizzante.
It takes a hell of a lot more to get me here
than it did when I had beauty, boys
when bedding me was the easy way to know me.

Don’t tuck me in
so tight. I’m not your grandma.
This rough blanket
its green red yellow indigo stripes
I traded for a perfectly warm beaver pelt.

Fly me once more
over my disloyal youth
and its hangdog slavering over men
whom age has de-sexed right along with me.
They broadcast impotent outrage
from aluminum tablets.
I collect speculums with Bakelite handles
arranging them by size
though it no longer matters.