ON CLOUD THREE

Ravel’s one-armed piano concerto
is tickling the ivories of my spine,
while I digest a breakfast of baby shrimp
and diabolically turn H2O into urine.

Then, left hand ringing false as usual,
Dottie Goldbarth, whose dots have yet
to be connected, stops by. Zipping down,
exposing my dangerous chest locks,

I quip, “Still marred with two children
and a wealthy insignificant other, I see!”
and, voila, it’s air on the g-string
followed by music for royal fireworks.