Her hands so hard with camaraderie
do slap my cheek repeatedly,
torment my face
through days of satin,
nights of lace,
in bursts of latin
at a heartbeat's pace

I've learned to bow to what's awash,
what's almost almost, often not,
crying wow and shouting gosh,
at nothing and a lot

My coffee sips me down into the mug,
where my senses and I do drown like a bug
But I rise in the great beyond anew
out of Elvis Costello's left red shoe