For years, my words have been so squeaky clean,
with nothing of the naughtiness they had,
when, with you, I was playfully obscene,
with license to behave as lusty lad.
I often had a chance for talking dirty,
and I would take advantage when I did,
in the decade after I was thirty,
and had more fun than when I was a kid.
But when we separated, dirty talk
was washed out of my mouth as if with soap
and stashed away as if with key and lock,
and I have tried to speak more like a Pope.
Yet blossoms grow in dirt, and, since I’m wordy,
I wish new love would grow in talk that’s dirty.
Mario A. Pita