Nancy and I sleep
on our old king-sized
four-poster bed,
slats crossed above our heads,
draping linen lace falls around us,
a soft cocoon
waiting morning chrysalis
Each corner’s topped
by a chess Bishop finial
held in place by antique glue.

Once,
somehow,
as old things do,
one came loose its moorings.

So,
now,
whenever the bed shakes,
His Holiness the Bishop
excommunicates
from his lofty throne,
bangs on the head board
and off the oak side brace,
bounces on the floor.

He is a not a too dangerous projectile
jarred by an exhausted collapse
on waiting pillows
or a jerking yank
away from a nightmare spider
just about to sit beside her.

Or…

some other

pleasanter

morning surprise
or afternoon enterprise
of evening exercise…

spontaneous,
delicious,
lascivious.

I thank the Gods
for this treasure:
my wife and happy life,
where the fall of a finial bishop
is harbinger of pleasure,
gratefully enjoyed.