In the middle of the night
the moon and stars milk and creaming
the Meandering Meadows buildings,
down one hall, in Room 77, there’s a pair in beda man and a woman; she starts to turn over
then he starts
and as they turn over
in a simultaneous sleepy rhythm
they aren’t ( yet ) awake for,
a sound issues out of their bodies:
the universal sound heard incontinence
across many seas
b - r - r - r - r - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - p !
There’s a silence in the room, in the hall,
all over the building; silence except
for the dripping of moonlight and starlight,
but there’s also the sound of two people
trying not to laugh
in the clean serene sheen of sleeping and dreaming;that sound is a wheezing, a snorting, then
an out-loud, late-night hooting.
“What are we, the Tijuana Ass?”
“Well, I do love the way you toot, my darling,” says the woman.
Eventually, they'll fold into each other, spooning,
lining up the wind instruments in one direction;
then they'll follow the starlight on their pillowsback toward sleep. But first, tonight - they might
have some more laughing to do.
“I had told you that we could laugh at anything,” he said to her.
He had, and they did; all night long.
And for the rest of their lives.