One of my very favorite poems ever, appeared in a newspaper years ago…I am blown away at the capturing of the power of a Woman, and the ready relish her man takes in being hers.

She is lovely, I think, as she sits,
one hand draped lightly over the shoulder
of her breathless companion, the other moving up and
out, as it punctuates the monologue she is murmuring
in his ear. Even from here, I can see that fines lines
break and run from her eyes, and banks of invasive gray
have taken root in her wild black curls. (Later today,
I will read that Sharon Stone has proven older women
can be beautiful, and I will think—was there ever
any doubt?) My God, this woman looks like a queen,
except she is sitting sideways, balanced,
on the back of an old, black bicycle.

The late April heat is already up,
and anyone looking would see
this man of hers is hard at it; his pressed
white shirt had become untucked in the back,
and the slick bare skin at the top of his head
is pearled with sweat. I wonder
if he finds himself wishing
he could trade the load he is pedaling
for a bottle of cold water, or an FM radio.

Suddenly, the corners of her lips elevate slightly,
and taking his right ear between her thumb and forefinger,
she tugs. His head snaps back, mouth open wide,
and he laughs with such force
that even the dogs drowsing
in the dusty shade that lines this road
lift their heads and sing.