My Better Angel

No femme fatale rocks a housecoat as well
as my beloved of thirty-five years,
since with it she bolstered me, truth to tell,
far beyond the phonemes of sonneteers
or any bunny in a magazine
shorn of their drapery mysterium
so notorious at setting the scene
for male gaze fever delirium...

which was always the wealth I truly craved
when often I had surplus love to spend
and she so fervent by that to be laved,
both inside and out, and at either end...

where even becoming fifty-seven
she comes across as a piece of heaven!