I imagine making love
to you on a sand table,
the type a fine mason constructs
to firmly, but gently hold,
by impression
a precious form,
your intoxicating manifold
snuggly thus,
would counter
My every ******.

The city's office canyons,
all but deserted
this snow laced Christmas day,
as if a pesticide had been sprayed
during the homing hour,
only to learn one day later
that it works best on people.

I'm told it's vile
to pick one's teeth,
but a lodged sesame seed,
caraway, or a tad of compressed nugent,
is another matter,
yet I must confess,
barring an audience before the queen,
I've been known in polite company
to search my inner coat
for a hidden piece of faux whale bone
and merrily go at it.

Remember the Christmas
we rolled our own chipatis,
Indus whole wheat,
like fine beach sand,
an equal measure
of all purpose white,
water, oil, salt as needed,
then rolled thinner
than unemployed hope,
stove top baked on high temp,
topped with fresh tomato red,
and green pepper salsa?
Now, that was bread!

I only have you for a minute,
two at best.
Therefore it would be silly of me
to stand here on my head,
you there,
wherever you are,
reading this.

I only have you for a minute,
two at best.
Here, it would be silly of me
to stand on my head,
you there,
wherever you are,
reading this.

I'm eating chocolate,
the kind the Swiss
keep for themselves,
the quality kind
that can only be delivered
by security truck,
Chocolate that the Incas
would **** a thousand in cold blood,
Chocolate that's so good
it will turn a committed ******
into a ******* sweet ****.

*Touring Venice with the Chocolateer is paying current dividends!