Titan

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

he never did – and never would, of course.

He would always have that knot in his throat,

he would always be staring at his shoes.

Her perfume flooding the elevator,

her elbow brushing him made his voice hoarse –

like most women she was the antidote –

this kindled his heart and beat out the blues.

Next step was daydreaming his life with her:

her daily dress a plea for intercourse,

begging to be fucked through her petticoat,

her conniving eyes one of many cues.

The fire stoking his groin made him purr –

entering their office like a trojan horse –

hiding his bloated sex under his coat,

for every case he had devised a ruse.

But he'd never act – he'd be a crass cur –

and his wife would rightly file for divorce,

him the perfect husband who would devote

his mind to a life he'd be dumb to lose.