Every morning I wake to hope,
that slut,
clasping her bra in the corner.
She slips down to the kitchen
robe seductively open.

On the way to my office she hums
a sultry melody.
I sip coffee and open e-mails
about expanding the size of my bank account
or penis.

She meets me later by the mailbox
elbows resting on top
palms a chalice for blushing cheeks
breasts plastered miraculously to metal.
I reach through the great drawbridge of her cleavage
to find bills and magazines filled
with successful writers.

Hope takes a steamy shower
and talks of leaving me for a younger man.

Yet every evening she crawls into bed
fresh and lacy
rubs my temples,
and whispers sweet fantasies
into my dreams.

Joshua Conklin