By: Milton P. Ehrlich 

Hurt pricks like a thorn,
waiting when waiting pains.
Routines of humiliation and kindness
shape the changes in your heart.

The wail of Minarets
reminds us to weep.
Infidels in a foreign land
reside in an Indian copy
of the Heartbreak Hotel.

Your perfect female form,
head to foot, graciously erotic
and debonair, creates stars in your eyes
that mesmerize me into a singing dog
with a wagging tail.

You’re a live Escher lithograph
with colossal eyes that see everything.
Your flushed inner thighs,
immediate as the odor of a rose
can’t get enough of me.

I have you all to myself
reading Basho’s poems.