Sex Emergency

Through the drizzle we kick and kick, accomplishing nothing.
In the season’s first sputtering love session
she spews a short stack of pancakes on my shoes,
an unsettling gush and swirl, so unlike banana cream.
It didn’t help that I lied when she asked me if I was a virgin.
Never been to Virginia, I said, although
I had been turkey shooting in the woods there once.
I’m a bit of an abracadabra conundrum.
Oh, she said, in disappointment or digestive discomfort.
Her eyes were so Vesuvius I kept yammering, stammering
Mi corazon, mi esposa, mi vida, which means
my sticky keys, my bewildered dove, my singalong soul,
a place I’d live as long as she’d have me.