The Urge to Merge

Though I’m far from virgin

it can still be urgent.

Is that verging on absurd

or splurging as obscene?

On the verge of age —

no, over the edge —

may I still rage,

or be left on a ledge?

With passion surging

I need no urging.

Only one way to purge

this urgent urge.

I can’t scourge it

away with detergent;

if I submerge it,

it emerges resurgent.

Is there some norm

from which I diverge

or is elderly lust

where we’ll all converge?


30 Poems in 30 Days: 24, an urge