Note – this is not a reflection on my wife and me (Just noting that). Its amazing how at 41, you feel disgusted to be writing erotica, but still you do it to be a poet. Its now or never.
A carrot doesn’t ask for,
The mouth of a thoroughbred mare
Neither does love. You go to the betting center,
And you bet on that speedy horse,
Called “Black Caviar”, a black beauty
With speed in her limbs, and
A soft spot for an orange tap root.
And love is as orange as a carrot stick,
Fed to a horse’s mouth. She looks
At it in some delight and slips it all inside,
Making the hollow chamber, a womb of sorts,
A room that begins in the pitch dark,
In sequences of flow and ebb,
Lips like Poseidon, mastering the tide,
Playing the carrot like a clarinet or recorder,
Until she, and you, open up to a two way epiphany,
Right about the time you’re going
To go ballistic and airborne, right down to,
When you realize, this was your soul-mare,
On whom you bet your whole future on.
And how absolutely tempestuous,
To bank on a dark tanned mare, that
Confesses to her wild ways, and feeds
On carrots, while considering its juice,
A healthy mouthful, worthy
Of that shameless smiley face.