Last night, knowing only her spirit form,
I met that woman who comes to me
In my most restless sleep.
It is very difficult, I have found,
To exchange written words with her,
Without believing I can fly.
She has the power to unhorse me down pat
And, given minutes,
Makes me feel aflame in a manner
That would be considered inappropriate
For a man my age in this three-putt suburb.
But whether saint or Superwoman she needs love too.
The worst and best of it is,
As befits her calling,
She speaks of those most private things
In a way attractive to the used-up male
And reminds me that I am not dead but sleeping.
Sleeping when, if only he had the heart
The cowardly lion could roar and swim forever
-Or at least for two nights-
In the Martini Sea of his native city
With the woman who lives in the phone.