I’m a blue pill cowboy.
Hot dreams, purple, red risings, hungry lusts….
Every lady I see is lovely.

All that urge comes into focus on the
graceful slopes, the round divides, orbed mounds,
soft concaves, warm, moist, hidden places
on the body of my wife

when she undresses for bed, plants seed in the garden,
doesn’t dress for bed, bends over to get the dish soap
from the cabinet below the sink, traces her fingers up my thigh, makes tea, looks at me, dusts family photos, smiles.

All that blue pill lusting testosterone
swells in my head.
My testicles implode, groin tingles, scrotum twitches.
I pray my penis is pointing up, not down
because he’s going to rise!
He rises!!
He breaches!!!
That surging swell is not going to stop
for any elastic jocky shorts leg band!
Neither will the power go to waste
for I know, blue pill or not
I shall still sing this song:

It’s the will,
not the pill,
makes the music.