Literalists

“I would slay a dragon for you!”
said he from out of the blue
his lilting voice a hopeful
spontaneous, off-hand musing
had him hoping for more
as she looked up from her
paperback mystery romance

“There are no dragons”
she stated flatly, perplexed
as he quietly sighed, continued
reading yesterday’s newspaper

Oath of June

“Do you solemnly swear
to tell the truth, the whole truth
and nothing but the truth?”

“I do.”

“You may now kiss the bride.
Liar.”

Smörgåsbord

There are many
different
kinds of love

puppy
brotherly
unrequited
passionate
secret
eternal
young
first
true

having oft
indulged in
at least
a smattering
of each morsel
mixing entrées
salads
desserts on
the same plate

I am woefully
unqualified
to distinguish
tasty from savory
overcooked from
underdone yucky
from delectable

still I happily
grab a fresh plate
for another pass

Restraint

I burn for you.

Remembering school
hallway posters
advising when in flames,
stop, drop, roll.

Subconsciously heeding
long suppressed
laminated pictograms
I have resisted the urge
to do the safe thing
whenever you walk in as

my resulting floor gyrations
would lack the panache to
qualify as a mating dance
ala National Geographic

Still, I burn for you.

Reading each other

She is reclining,
reading
on bed or couch;
on her side,
jean-clad legs in
fetal curl,
head propped up
on cocked, sensual
elbow, other hand
holding the book
her eyes flitting
through her fiction

sometimes she is on
her back, nestled in
pillows, engrossed,
both hands grasping
stomach-resting book
bare feet crossed
at the ankles

I sit on the edge of
couch, bed
casually, gently run a
single finger across
her t-shirt clad
midsection in gentle
sawing motion,
poking; outlining
so I pointedly, gently
tell her every time

is just where the staples
would be located
in her centerfold shot

should be so inclined
to ever pose for one

She always nods in a
way that only being
together for twenty years
can acknowledge both
my attraction, and her
starring role in my elusive,
creative daydreaming.

She smiles, and we
continue reading

Dream sequence

Quiet evening on my couch
I fall asleep watching t.v.
dozing, I awaken from a dream
in which I was watching an old
console television from the 60’s
the picture was fuzzy, zigzagging,
jumping around, unwatchable; in
the remote-less era of my fantasy
I get up, go to the monolithic set,
turn real (silver plastic) knobs

play with the vertical hold
adjust the horizontal hold
alter the single antenna
making the show viewable
return to couch to watch
that’s when I wake up

To my left, oblivious to my snoozing,
my wife sits working on her laptop
the picture is crystal-clear, eminently
watchable prime-time as her tender
fingers glide swiftly across the sleek
keyboard; pinkies and ring fingers
deftly twitch and pound, punctuating

barely glancing my way, ‘You’re awake’
her only recognition as she continues
to type on obscurely engrossing work

sly scooting down the couch I grab her
right hand mid key-stroke, rub it gently
between my thumb and forefinger
as her other hand stops typing, lays at
rest, limp on the keyboard

I lean in to kiss her starting
to adjust my vertical hold
of her as we slowly slide down
onto the cushions and I adjust
my horizontal hold on her, deftly
place the laptop on the floor
readjust our horizontal hold as I
grope for the remote, find it,
quickly click the off-button
as our horizontal hold on each
other stops jumping around
the picture comes into much
sharper focus and it has nothing
at all to do with the television

Mental matinee

Less frequently but with far more
purpose, much sharper focus than
my younger, more myopic days

my workday mind meanders from
the daily mundane to stray to
tantalizing, sometimes R-rated
thoughts, possibilities for later

cerebral erotica starring my oh-so-
vixenish-after-twenty-years wife

My mind’s eye squints to concentrate
on the unfolding cinematic epic in my
head when I abruptly utter aloud a
wariness to ‘still be able to do that’
to the quizzical stare of a co-worker

While my mind goes where it always
has, reality makes a bar-close hook-up
with regrettably lowered expectations