GENTLE RHYMES OF WINTER

He spends the winter reading
She weeps over the sink
The milk gets used to breathing
And days are turning pink.

Imagine death protesting

The skill of being born
He said while blissfully wrestling
The frogs in his old horn.

She gently strikes a passion

For undernourished thighs
But fails to hear the lash on
The bimbo in disguise.

It all recurs in winter

Intriguing as a smile
When he decides to quit her
But cannot find her file.

Then her lit mouth misfires

And rats on greetings fall
She spits what she admires:
Now smut belongs to all…

The days are turning pink

And cows remember breathing
The color doesn’t link
With him, in winter, reading.