In another man’s bed, the sun strokes her cheek
With his youthful gold-fingered supple fingers,
And prying her sleepy lids apart, she prepares
For the day, her scent on his bed lingers.
Her fingers knead the dough, that his strength
Nourishes; and later, when the Sun is older
And fiercer, she plucks his dried clothes,
Clean, but his scent on them for ever.
She haggles with the grocer, scolds the bai,
And takes time off from her reading, and fills
His balance sheet and pay his taxes, and later
Makes the bookings to travel to the hills
And in the night, in bed with him,
When she mingles her body to his
The name that reverberates in her mind
Making her orgasm, is mine, not his