Fair Exchange (Poetry)

You lend me a brief taste of youth —
a freshness that recalls my own
now distant twenties for, in truth,
old age is hard to bear alone.

I touch you and I feel renewed
in spirit; weary flesh hangs weak
and hungry for ecstatic food —
the flavour jaded gourmets seek.

I feast on you — your sweetness brings
the pleasure only vices can —
a menu of forbidden things
to satisfy a rich old man.

And in return for favours spent,
I have indulged your every whim,
resigned that further commerce meant
an endless game of bartering.

Your kisses cost; your fingers trace
the noughts upon a promised cheque;
your flawless calculating face
pressed cool against my generous neck.

I cannot tell just what you feel —
love or loathe me, tolerate
the bare essentials of our deal,
convinced large profits compensate.

And as I count each subtle sigh
escaping when you offer me
exclusive service, trading high
for such a dear commodity,

I speculate you disbelieve
the myth and think that money can
buy happiness, so you relieve
the cravings of a rich old man.