Thanking the Gods
for opposable thumbs.
Singing hymns
for lightly callused fingers.
Prayers
for firm, sensitive nipples.
Praise
for the mysterious mound,
found,
after patient search,
deep down,
warm and wanting,
(But the little devil’s
never where she was
the last time!)
A Maletov Cock –
tail,
all munitions needed
but one.
Waiting only the flame,
“Behold! He stands at the door and knocks.”
A soft invitation.
A suggestion,
whispered,
on an unencumbered
Sabbath morning.
Poems by Ken 