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 the 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.