On Finding That Book At Her Breast

Bertrand Russell was just lying on her there,

rising and falling and entangled in her hair,

feeling the bass drum of her dreaming of the day,

sternum to spine and back ‘til sleep had had its way.

I never told her every imperfection was

a symphony to me not only just because

she is the maiden at the head of the parade.

Boom, boom, boom went the band, marching.

I plucked the Englishman from her heaving breast,

kissed my hand and then, as the moon rose in the west,

touched it softly to her philosophizing head,

then dared to dream that I might join her in the bed.

A single flautist rose above the madding crowd.

And even though he tried, he wasn’t very loud.

I slipped my hand between the pillow and the bed,

and touched the fashion magazine that she had read.