Force is followed by loss of strength.

Staying with me this morning, I count
the poses you strike reclined:
head burying the pillow,
legs sprawl/tangled between winding linens
and flat naked exhaustion.

These midweek workdays lyposuction spunk
with routine demands
even a bowl of Apple Jacks and milk
can’t stir to remnant grunts,
nor even cream-cheese lathered bagels.

I’m electric shaved and showerbound while
you’re still plowing scales of
full note breathing and rapid eye movements,
sex-spent across a queen-size
rumpled calm, resigned to punch-in late.