Abela
sees nothing
in Renoir's

kind of art
she prefers
Constable

or Rembrandt
so she says
as we lie

in the bed
after ***
cooling down

we smoking
cigarettes
a slight breeze

in the air
a window
half open

moon and stars
visible
those women

at the bar
she utters
with those

hairy men
how could they?
could they what?

fancy them
like sleeping
with an ape

we each have
our own taste
I tell her

I couldn't
not with them
she tells me

I'm glad she
fancies me
and my beard

as I kiss
between thighs
listening

as I do
to her moans
and her sighs.