She Slept Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Born as a wombat circumstance decreed
that I would metamorph into a moth.
Which is, (admit it) nothing but the need
of some religious and so ancient piece of cloth.

I sat contentedly upon the window sill,
to keep the mozzies from her partly covered legs,
outside the clatter of the New Age Builders' mill
there was a carton of Rhode Island fertile eggs.

She slept the sleep of peace and beauty in her sheet,
cheeks flushed and lips apart, wait for my kiss.
I sat quite still, let her be gone until we meet
let dreams be kind to her, and chase away all bliss.

I sat all night on that plain latex painted sill,
I'd never tire of her bosom rising high,
I shall behave my Lord to get you to fulfill
my fervent wish, all other thought would be a lie.