jump shot some ***** laundry into the
closeted hamper, where they go to be
regrafted like new skin on an old body

hanging about her lacy finery,
her private undergarments to be
laundered with soapy kindness by
hands from the land of gentility

these double purposed garb,
(Think)
she wears with great pride and
greater pleasure on and from
her dancing toned body

label facing out, unintentionally,
and there I learn she be a
a C cup, not a wee cup

and **** a poem sprouts
like a volcano Word pimple on my tongue,
begging to be bursted,
busted, tasted and remade publicly

not the poem or the place
for French irony, subterfuge,
came out of the closet,
laughing more than mere out loudly

for when I read that black label,
my neurons fired a
singular message to my heart:

she is my cup,
and when I drink her
body and soul,
I C myself clearer...

and this is where I'll cease,
the non public, the to-follow verse,
for her private consumption...

but when I, self-confessed man-idiot
remarked upon it to her,
for my laugh was more roar than
smiling simile,
she had the lovely temerity,
my old lady (she hates that),
to blush like a teenager
in her training bra

and I C now why she inspires this old man,
more than anything else in this world