He lives for five o'clock.
Utterly vulnerable,
I digest
remnants of
the day,
awaiting his lips
to greet my southern ones.
He comes,
a ragged pup
full of induced
spunk
to my bedpost.
I
matte,
milky,
malleable,
mild
bask in the
remedies of feathers
and fluff.
Him
masculine,
mischievous,
muscular,
manic
ravages my crumpled form
makes the colors of
me blush a tarnished red.
Scratching
the delicacies
like mucking up
a wedding cake,
like staining silk,
like ruining a virgin.
He figures
with joy must come pain
for these women
that's all they know
in child birth
both elements are vital.
In this
miraculous
instance that is
totally selfless
he has to add
a touch of roughness
with that five o'clock
shadow scraping
the poor labia.
God have mercy on our souls.
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