No fish story (for Amy)

I am not
fish6carping here
from poet’s perch;
people often find my
reel, romantic tale fishy

Love is like shooting fish
in a barrel – this I have known
for long I have been one with the
proverbial oaken-casked floundererfish8

I am no fish out of water here
nor do I have any other fish to fry
there are, I know, other fish in the sea
but I have my catch; she caught me

you can take the bait on this:
looking for deeper meaning
in my metaphors is a
fishing expedition

loving her has
always been
easy: shefish2
lured,
I bit

hook,
line,
sinker

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

“Portrait de Madonna; mère de mes fils, vendredi soir” (Madonna portrait; mother of my sons, Friday night)

After some ongoing, sad-eyed cajoling
you agreed to a Friday night date night
not of your choosing or comprehension
posing for nervous artist and sketch pad

you acquiesced to your best black pumps,
resolute: no clenching of rose in teeth –
concession gladly made by your love-struck
middle-aged, middle-class, modicum talent

Renoir with shaky charcoal pencil, prop
linen pad and still skeptical, self-consciously
reclining, propped-on-solitary-elbow model
in the candle-lit tableau before me surpasses

that of my very imaginative faux-artist’s
mind’s eye, having seen you as I have this way
a thousand times…but never quite like this

You are Louvre worthy; a study in pure form
glowing alabaster in flickering votive light minus
gilded frame, stay behind the velvet rope policy
shaky charcoal pencil strokes begin to quiver

across gray newsprint as this erotic charade
plays itself out, much as my artistic talent did
many years before the twenty I have known you
yet you graciously allow me this opportunity;

me – sans beret, palette; you, lacking not shoes
and all I can put on canvas is a stick figure
devoid of any of your revealing, inviting contours,
leaving all to the imagination, nothing to chance

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

So, I call…

Her night-sultry voice
achieves what a closet of
negligees cannot