On the bed, in shades of pink and lavender,
an array of devices formerly known as
marital aids. No lump of silicone could save
that wretched marriage, but now they stall
a tantrum by sparking explosions elsewhere.
Displaced from their once leading role,
pouting fingers hold and thrust, consoled by
drops of mead milked from passion’s mouth.
Half the action’s higher up in any case,
fill the void that waits for you alone.