Canasta

We’d a semi-detached
not much of a garden,
only so many places
you could bury a bone.
One evening was yawning
when she made a suggestion -
a game of canasta,
we’d wager our freedom.
The loser would serve
and winner be master,
commander, dictator
for a time to determine.

I had visions of her
in vertiginous heels,
scarlet mesh stockings
and the band of white flesh
at the peak of her thighs
defenceless as snow.
Crotchless knickers,
her sex between brackets;
unguents, oils
that purpled and glistened;
wrists wrapped in velvet -
the tease of resistance.

Though I lost, defeat promised
as much as success did.
You must stroke and kiss
my Bones, she insisted.
But no stab at arousal,
nor even a death wish.
Bones was her dog,
and I hated the bitch.
She was testing resolve
or held out a hope
I might yet learn to love.
But I didn’t and couldn’t
and loathe all the more,
for she vows that she’ll never
play canasta again.

Raymond Miller


If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Raymond Miller  would be pleased to hear them