a woman in his lap

a large house
in a large garden
and flowers,
a great many hours
of spring time showers
a lazy dog
with psychic power
licks the kitty
outside of the nearest city
and in the end
he got little
but another cat fight;
the leading light,
despite bouts of manic drinking
and attempted thinking,
was a busted
but trusted
college grad
at times both happy and sad
who cleaned the litter box
washed socks
searched the sky for Venus
played with penis
confessed in autobiographical writings,
his entire face covered in stainless steel,
exactly how he wanted to feel
many a morning
without warning
when he had to get back down to earth
satisfied that he knew exactly what he was worth
dancing to ragtime
Louis Armstrong
what more could go wrong?
he had the lucky number seven
like trying to live in heaven
black tiled floors
minimal chores
cafe chairs
an abundance of greying hairs
phone calls not returned
piles of wood unburned
until an alfresco dinner one winter eve
with nothing up his sleeve
but there was a passing rumor
of black humor
sitting by the fire,
a woman in his lap
considering a nap
after having given a kiss
one he especially liked to taste
her lips around his waist,
and he could hear her sighs,
see her vaginal eyes
sparkling like a unconventional art lover.