Robert McLean

A Tale of a Broken Heart

As the rhythm of her derrière
quits bucking like a roadhouse bull
(both monstrous and mechanical),
the playmate of our millionaire

dismounts her apoplectic John
to ossify him orally
with mercantile conceit. All she
can do amounts to mere coercion:

his penis is a stalactite
now deliquesced (O torpid thaw!)
into a pink miasma: a poor
excuse for manhood. And despite

a banquet of fellatio
and deft intercourse, his phallus
remained strictly pusillanimous,
at least till her punctilio

relieved his wallet of its load –
then his limp prick petrified. When
he’d entered into her equation,
his viscous blood had cease to flow

to extremities – and heart. Dead
for all money, she sheds a few tears
(after not crying for 30 years)
and leaves a note beside the bed.