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.

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