The Staff of Life

Back straight, head adjusted, fingers of right hand encircled, raised
to right eye and examines --
Partially hidden artist’s signature. Cherries ripe and spread apart,
artichoke erect. However, the staff of life under a plate hidden
from its vital role in the vibrancy of life -- retreating rather than
embracing life’s ultimate purpose. Bread, if not consumed molds;
butter, if unused, grows rancid -- better to consume robustly with
your well-endowed and well-exposed companion whose hair
frames face and shoulders. Whose ankles caress your calf creating
the same rise as when bare shoulders first touched. Uncover and
expose bread mounds, hear the soft maiden sound, feel the warmth,
inhale yeasty mist rising. Then, as if fondling softness, tenderly
touch butter to curves and cervices as it oozes into unknown
indentations and tender rises. A hand, slightly open, ascends to lips
as gentle heat strokes tongue, flows onto taste buds, lingers, then,
on its own, sidles toward your left cheek, snuggles closer.
Moistness savored. Sensuousness entwined. Lustiness grasped.
And you floating half-lost, consumed with a zeal that will exhaust
the night.