She thought of a surprise
for him, and for herself.
The shop was advertising,
half price today, just for today,
the cream called ICE, a gel,
containing top grade menthol,
all imported stuff, from Paris.
You would apply it, gently now,
much like a prophylactic thingy,
and watch the world explode
and magic bring the pink and rosy
clouds of new pleasures to you.
She wondered briefly about cubes,
straight from the freezer in the den,
but then decided to believe in modern,
and scientific chemistry, life science.
Turned out it felt like liquid rubber,
of the cheapest kind, it smelled
like Nikes from last week, after the run.
It acted like an anti-slip material
which wasn't what the moment called for.
She does have guts, that woman,
confronted Mr Manager next day,
told him about the wasted dough
and that the label said it guaranteed
your satisfaction. Told him to try it,
at home. And got her money back.
While hubby hid behind the rhubarb leaves.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ice-gel/
