She sits upon her beauty
as if it were a favorite armchair;
no longer a brilliant novelty
from a biological furniture outlet
but rather a fast friend,
old as the peremptory mistress
with which it came.
And what man could help
but swallow reality in shots
and revel in the impossible
which sprung a dizzy surprise
(like Athena, from the head of Zeus)
into a damnably sober life?
She slept atop her beauty
as if upon an antique loveseat,
arm covers hanging askew
and the polish worn on the corners
with nothing to distract from that immaculate grain.
And what man could resist,
when divine fortune stretches its hand,
to grasp that hand,
and perhaps even pull the tiniest bit?
She slept upon her beauty,
grasping her pillow with the
carefree affection of sleep.
I asked her if she would please
move the slightest bit to make room.
And move she did.