THIS IS WHAT HAPPINESS IS

Our world is silent,

nothing we have to do,

no place we have to go.

Vintage limbs entwine.

Rays of morning sunlight

stream over the contours

of her well-lived elegant face.

We inhale a strong scent

of gardenias on the sill,

breathing in unison.

Quiet ends by a brewing

pot of Medaglia d’Oro

and the plop-plopping

of a pot of Irish oatmeal.

My cold hand warms

between her thighs.

Otis scratches at the door.