Camelot

John F. Kennedy was making love
to Marilyn Monroe,
kissing her breasts as he thrust,

trying to get an American to the moon,
himself and his little troops marching.
Marilyn was moaning and sighing,

jamming her pelvis into John’s pelvis.
Cape Canaveral all lit up
in her eyes,

John’s head on the verge
of an explosion.
He dug his face in her neck.

The moon is barren,
devoid of water
and eighty per cent blonde.