Ponce de Leon

by George Lober

Now that I am fifty
I look at you differently,

I let the scent of your skin
wash over me at night,

I bathe my face in the red
spray of your hair,

and cling to your back
in the dark like a man

both afraid of the jungle
and certain as Ponce de Leon

that my last and only hope
of remaining young

is to discover you
again and again and again.