An Easter egg with a goatee dances.
He’s staring up at her, nursing a drink.
His Madonna, oiled to best France’s,
Italy’s, Greece’s; He’d rather not think.
He’s nursing their offspring – scotch on the rocks
Head hung low, fantasies ebbing tonight.
She’s drenched and exhausted and watching clocks.
He eyes her sweetly; does she need a bite?
Theirs is a romance built for more than two.
Shots, lovers, clothes, pleasures piled on the floor.
Music pumping a beat from eighty-two.
Gold is for pirates; lust: clients; she wants more.
She hopes the baby they make
Equals the hopes they take.