Flashbacks
All it takes is Laura Riding’s riding–
crop across my butt, and I’m off:
Git-up horsie she cries astride me as
I crash sweetly onto the carpet.
Boredom what an esthetic,
cleansing the days–
I laud the vintage of my toothpick.
Small-husband to the floor,
my foot stoops in dance,
in courtship intervals.
Putting their clothes on afterwards
the lovers are surprised
at how empty
the buttonholes seem.
