Archibald's day began like any other

except he was in a maniacal fever to be alive.

Charged with a brilliant clarity of seeing

things as they are,- fully present.

Starved for a view of the outside world,

everything had an aura, magically luminous.

He longed to hug the pussy-willows and

dance with them in the wind, wanted to fly

with the humming bird right into the Tiger-Lilly,

and fill his lungs to the bursting point with

the scent of honey-suckle.


Going home after his myocardial infarct

his ardor knew no bounds.

Scornful of medical advice he boasted

to his worried wife that he felt like

an intercontinental ballistic missile

just waiting for the countdown.


Braiding her languorous legs with his,

Archibald enveloped her like a muscat vine.

She yielded delicately, like a flowering

narcissus moving toward the sun.

Savoring his pleasure, like the Prince of Serendip,

until he found himself wide-eyed and flummoxed,

gasping for his last breath.


Milton P. Ehrlich