by William A. Greenfield
The contrast of stainless steel to ample breasts
far out trumps a sheer negligee and fluffy pillows.
The marriage of derrière to cherry wood
is an unexpected pleasure,
like finding Ben Franklin
in a pair of worn and fading Wranglers.
No violins.
No scented oils.
The hum of the dishwasher
is pornographic foreplay.
I have got to find a new place
for this fucking spice rack.
Counter space is at such a premium.