No Roses

The sweet perfumed leopard skin Foxy Babe leaves, ennui of another night's eventual quietude,

And with her any chance of a moment's mad rapidity

Silently, impatiently, he cycles home to that dreadful bed, up down, up down,

Without a welcome hand to hold, a cheek to kiss, a breast to fondle, and all the rest...

These mumbling moments are derisory; teeth-clenched, they are destined to condemn and sour

    – and then there's pizza

And then he's gone, the rampaging powered black leather Super Studmuffin, ammunition for yet another frigid night

Away, away, always, without the gift of that needful, gentle, physical touch

She glumly boards the bus minus the proximity that proves a lifetime of words

Warm breaths of earnest desire, passion in the minds, such urgency of the fingers...

She shrugs a slough of idle thoughts; they are the whim of fancy, of charming childish logic

    – and then there's chocolate

Together (by a cling-film moment) they are never one, a signal failure that has no straight measure

But on spirited winds these hearts yearn, on and on

Becalmed by workaday Monday mundanity, without any more than a daily smidgeon of self-indulgent sentiment

Poor me, poor you, poor us, is never said...

Divided, separated, alone; theirs is a song forever waiting in the wings

    – and then there's next time