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When my wife and I
Make sleazy love on the marriage bed
And heat radiates from our flesh, to planks of wood
And to nails that hold the bed posts in place
And orgasmic creaks of a spring mattress
Making love to the bed frame
Making our vocal-chords mere imps

And after making love
We listen to the Cargill’s man
Playing his music box
And he hands us two ice creams
Through the gate

And those Sunday rituals are ours now
Seemingly the music box of the Ice Cream man
Is as important as the music of our bodies

And rituals are heart’s way of saying
It’s the small traditions that keep the love alive
Those itsy-bitsy forensic moments that become mainstays
Liturgies of our insensibilities
That make prophecies out of our feelings

Knowing we have lost our marbles
And all we have is our nitwits in the heart
Spinning together the longest rope mankind knows
Braiding together small episodes and editions
Making up our story as we go along

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