On the coach
between Paris and Tours
Mamie was seated
next to you

her head
of frizzy hair
against your shoulder
her eyes closed

her mouth ajar
fish like
the valley between
her small **** visible

as she lay there
rocking slight
to the coach’s motion
music coming through

the radio
some Mozart piece
you looked
at her hands

in her lap
small and curled
like sleeping *****
her bare arms

sans hair but freckled
and you looked at her
and sensed her head
against you

knowing some brain
buzzed beneath
her frizzy mane
thoughts exploded there  

were explored
or put aside
sleep be drugged
like some child

in fairy land maybe
you studied her knees
just visible
where her

red skirt rose
flesh on flesh
how through Paris
in the coach

she had pulled
your hand
into her lap
held it there

the pulse of her
beating through
her garden of Eden
beneath the cloth

then the Mozart
piece ended
and Beethoven began
thunderous and loud

pushing through
the speakers
stirring Mamie
beside you

her lips moving
mouthing words
her hands opening out
the palms upright

you looked beyond her
at the passing scenes
of France at night.