A Fine Sunday It Turned Out To Be Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

She sat there in my Haines,
reading Oliver Sacks to me.
While I, not being the literal kind,
this fine morning, I stared
discreetly, needless to say,
at how her two formidable buds
rose with the inflection of her voice,
I never did call them oxymorons again,
though I saw them as such,
they tasted like out of this world
and they seemed to be filled with
the warmest blood a mammal,
any mammal could be expected to possess.

She was a clever girl, a bit left brained,
slow in the corpus callosum when it came,
you know, right down to choice,
on a Sunday afternoon, for example,
too many distractions, like this session,
a neurologist who doubles as a Seinfeld,
only much smarter and more technical,
fine, fine I said for the umpteenth time,
you can read to me while I, you know,
to which she vehemently objected, yeah,
on the phony grounds that a woman,
anywhere on the globe could not,
would not be able or willing to whistle
and to eat at one and the same time.

But she has always been great on compromise,
not that I deserve any of it, or so it seems,
to me when I brush my teeth with sound waves,
while looking at my soul in the mirror,
I think she might truly be smitten, like I am.

We men are so dumb, ain't we, thick
as we say Down Under, we lack, lack, lack
confidence, never being really sure,
always between erection and rejection.

I wonder if it's just me and if it stems from
that dreaded Oedipus Complex. Really,
could very well be, won't ask her though,
In the end she always wins, wins for me
and again, she put the damn book down,
placed my head, with her gentlewoman fingers
gingerly, sweetly and somewhat resolutely
on her zone, the dividing range between her,
words fail me here, man...... deliciosos,
where the words of Oliver Sacks soothe my ears,
and her heart plays its secret melody, just for me.


(For C, a fellow dreamer with a fine SCM)