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