Between Poems

The coffee pot brewing is volcano
in orgasm. When caffeine cat tumbles
into the room, mouth open, ears tucked
back, he's a mini-vamp trying to mutate
me into something more his size. Nothing's
working. I assume my muse is triangled

in Bermuda, seaweed and sand mixing
with her hair. Her mouth on a margarita: a salty
holiday from me. But then, while shaving
and lathered up, the next poem comes
and life gets stupid, the grass just grass, the milk
just milky, the plums, delicious, so sweet and so cold.