Valentin

Bed,
under thin blankets.
10:00 a.m. Saturday
in April.
Our dim hotel room
by the Champ de Mars;
all over Paris
an attack of raindrops.
Wet windows,
and shutters of
fading, peeling emerald
ajar.
Slight chill,
heat blows weakly.
She stirs slightly
in the crook
of my arm,
sleeps,
murmurs,
smiles,
farts.
Oh!
Need (want) to prepare
the demitasse,
the eclairs
from 'La Leche de Venus'
patisserie,
and find that silver box
ribboned with a gold
satin bow
from 'Bijou'
that has the black marble
pearl drop earrings
she cooed over
last weekend.
But then she
pivots closer
to me,
taut nipples nestle
in my side
(frisson!)
and a bare arm alights
on my chest.
O,
then she sighs,
smiles,
farts, and
sleeps.
Okay.
10:30
or bust.



DB/2.2016