On an autumn afternoon

I change my jeans

In a cold bedroom.

My glass has seen scenes

Where girls barely known comb

Their hair, and then depart.

How often have I thought

I ought to make a new start.

Yet soon my glass has reflected back

A girl doing her hair

Before she leaves me

In sheets where strangers meet.

Sometimes my lust is satisfied

But my heart cries

Out for love.

Yet I continue to buy

What can not be bought.

And perhaps ought not.