Whereas she’s no great burden to my bed,

Her visitor should be assigned the floor.

He teases, as she never ever would,

With irritating tugs at the extension.


Nicely, she respects the need for exits,

Leaving my door into the weeds ajar,

And, being something of a Thespian herself,

Appreciates my more dramatic entrances.


Mornings, she’s responsive to the prayer,

Opening the altar to secure for me

Libations worth the lowering of hauteur.

Just as a nutriment stales she changes the flavour.


Has the most brushable calves, I declare,

Although I’m rather partial to his trouser.

Never knowingly shall I sink myself unsheathed

Into her contour.  There are times, alas,


One suffers from unconscious fits of tenderness,

And nothing’s to be done, one has to tread

The memory still soft beneath the paw.

Of course I maul that maul-provoking visitor


Mewling his resentment of the ardour

Lavished upon me by her.  She has a use

For him, it seems, although it’s clear

That in her breast my tenure’s ever paramount.


From SILENT HIGHWAY my book of poems, published in 2014 by Anvil, now distributed by Carcanet.  The picture is of my grandson Vinicius phoning a Siamese!

About anthonyhowelljournal

Poet, essayist, dancer, performance artist....
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