She arrives at my door with Merlot in her eyes
And a sadness on her breath.
Her mother has passed.
And though I have sired in the same state
And know all the conversationalist things to say
I just tell her to come in for a drink.
I hush the blues playing in the living room
and unlock the Oban.
I am hoping to steal the dampness from her cheeks and
ice them into high balls in shallow glasses
"I hurt", she sighs.
"Have a drink," I reply.
"It won't help," she says.
"I'll pore you another," I respond.
She looked and I kissed her,
And we fell into it.
We made love like one of us was dying.
In the morning the crickets whispered Shakespeare
and the soft static charge in the room tickled even the
paintings on the wall with body hair halleluyahs.
Breakfast would turn into brunch
The mailman would not be greeted by polite thankyous
And our birdcage would remain blanketed
By last night's plentitude.