Mizzling is his missile into my head:
it lands and cracks me open,
I can't think or do a thing until he stops.
As soon as I scoop his warm fleshy form
into the fit of mine, he is content,
flashing me his flirty grin,
turning his pretty head to watch
whatever his eye can catch.
He trails his hand in the sink's warm suds,
pulling out a wooden spoon; next,
he grabs the towel rail, marvelling