Classic Poem

Man
in his fifties,
face
spare, closed,
reading
TIME.
Protruding
from the beige
stormcoat . . .
French cuffs,
a pear outline,
light blue.

Abigail
out of New Bedford,
the wife,
her watermark,
the fabric
washed
by her
(face closed)
like fine lace,
its immaculate
conception
ironed
and folded
with care
By conservatrix
of the straight way
Out of the generations
of man.

In bed
I imagine
she allows
passage

(if my sclerotic
apparition holds)
but not to you,
O wild ass