We don’t count our toes or fingers,
Nor do we count our blessings.
They are in the hundreds,
And still what better way to concede,
That I have it good, than by
Saying a silent thanksgiving prayer to god.
I finally got married at 38,
Long after most people,
Still better late than never, an idiom says.
How her avocado fruit figure,
Took me in, how lush her green pulp,
Became, to parts of my body,
What tingles like mercury. Love
Was just an obese blessing,
Bigger than Jupiter and her rings,
Or a blue whale and her blubber,
Like dark clouds saturated with raindrops,
Bursting out in raw uncompromised passion,
Like my wife’s rich succulent lips.
Those pummeling monsoons,
Spraying torrential kisses,
And the puddles, my lips become.