If skin hunger
were a health emergency
recognized by the World Health Organization,
Gillian’s gentle face would be
plastered on depressing posters
prepared to promote awareness.
She hasn’t done the deed since her divorce
was finalized fifteen years ago
and has misplaced the self-esteem to
foray into physical affection,
especially the sort that requires
copious quantities of exposed flesh.
Bleakly bundled up
in the microtundra of Mosimann Gardens,
she waxes severe before buying
a box of cheap chocolate drops,
a chaser to the heart-shaped pizza
that will grease her fingertips
til they glisten like De Beers diamonds
during her Valentine’s dinner-for-one
while she devours a dreamy Doris Day romcom
in the king-size bed where later she’ll
promote her pillow to patient lover.