who can make love
on a Monday morning.
So many pieces to the heart: the right
woman of course, who desires not just
to lay abed pretending Sunday but lusts
for love, ready to smile, humid with
the thought. And work, whatever
tool await, skillet or screwdriver,
computer with its tactile grin - he
would need at least a forgiving boss
who didn't stand pointing at a watch,
grimacing at lateness. Then there's
the very bed, a sea of slippery silk
though hay alone is legendary.
The clock need not alarm. Instead,
a gentle hand wrapping around,
stroking a belly, arriving at a breast.
You can imagine the rest.
This poem is about a happy man
not sex and he, floating on his lover's
raft, sights a misty island where they
both can live without deadlines,
bosses, traffic that strangles or mon-
etary chills that freeze the best
man's assets. Not a word, just love
with a happy woman who sends
her man to battle satisfied.