miss b turns her hand to erotica

Miss B, 46,
so sadly neglected
since her new Spanish gentleman
abandoned her on Thanksgiving,
sits blankly forsaken
in the midst of the harshest
winter in Spokane
in 95 years.

The move to the north-west
did not revive her, as expected -
the field not as fresh
nor the grass near as green
as even Savannah,
that man-barren wasteland.
Now, some carnal distraction,
she fiercely craves.

She takes up her pen
its weight in her fingers.
How quickly it warms
to her uncertain touch.
Montblanc 324,
1935 Brown marble,
black veining piston filler –
and a Moleskine Cahier.

O! my dreams, oh my long nights
Oh my stories of travelers
Wrapped in my arms
as the silky oaks cried.
Ink glides from my pen
like his fingers through my hair
like his lips on my thin
and translucent flesh

And from a Stanley Bali
fruitwood chaise,
Miss B turns her hand
to erotica.
Just teasing
at the edges,
a script to a play
she never will act.

Bait for a hook
she never will thread
for fish in a dark and
far-distant sea.
To be cast from a ship
that is vanishing sunward,
its sails shrinking dim
in the sunset.

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