At the tender age of thirty-one
I looked up from her pillow at
Barely twenty years of
Flesh and bone and smile.
I didn't need to spy.

Wearing nothing but herself.
Back straight, front to me,
Eyes locked with mine, though never
Once an uttered
Boy, my eyes are up here,
As they travelled across the this-is-me-ness of all of her;

All composed in some wicked
Genious proving that
God created all designers.
And that nothing exceeds the beauty
Of Woman.

I never forget thinking
This could be the one I watch
Dress and undress
For the rest of my life.

I still don't need to spy.