Bliss, like the ages of man, has stages.
The unremembered first, doubtless, the teat.
At ten I won a bike. Didn’t get laid
Until eighteen (memorably unsweet!)—
But incarnated that fierce, raw pleasure,
That genital discourse. What bliss to be
Wanted, seduced—warm, entropic treasure!
Marriage, children, a hard-won Ph.D.
Promotion—chosen as Outstanding Prof
(Albeit, one of five). Primed by good health,
Explorer, drunk on tart exotic quaffs—
Retirement secured with decent wealth.
Last stage of all—alas, it’s come to this—
Goose-down duvet—hot pad—my fondest bliss!
(1/6/08)