Dreams of the undead

The blond with the beautiful thighs
lay naked in my bed. A dream,
of course,
for the woman ignores me at the gym.
All of our man eyes burn holes in her flesh
and you don’t fan the flames
by batting your baby blues back.
You walk around us like a zombie.
And we stagger after her,
zombies ourselves,
desiring everything but her brains.
I try not to overdo it;
I am on the cusp of dirty old manhood
and should not stare at younger women overlong.
So it was strange to find her thighs
under my dream sheets.
We were two kids
playing at the edges of love.
Then a zombie groaned in the night
and I woke up alone.