Passion Around Two Coffee Pots
After you have heated the coffee pots
And after you have emptied and cleaned them,
We will talk yet again
Around our silly, incipient love.
I shall want to discuss it naked
With you in a shower,
But I cannot.
I shall only gaze
And converse nervously
About the this morning’s
God-damned quarter moon.
“Did you see the moon this morning?” I shall ask.
I have applied oatmeal vanilla lotion,
And this is my aphrodisiac.
It is, I am sure,
More alluring than my feeble speech,
So I can now say that, at least,
I am prepared to meet you.
I will not speak with you this evening
Of Joyce or Hemingway or Kant,
For I have never read their useless, futile words.
When finally inspired and perhaps even calm,
I shall hint
At the fudge sickles and chocolates and toasted bagels
Which I shall bring to you.
Mine, like a song of innocence,
Is a shy love.
It does not transform or transcend or float away like a rose.
It does, however, someday kiss, I am sure.
I think it is much like vanilla lotion.