Lake Lostbottom

Just the minimum...
The requisite for an eternal break
From the copious confabulations,
The consuming convolution of thoughts...
Just outside my cabin;
A couple trillion gallons of vitality,
A couple trillion more, when it rains in Bleakvale...

Moist and mesmerizing; the air, that is...
A hundred yards from my door
Sits an oakwood bench, bellow the willow tree...
A drowsy symbiote to the freshly filled monster;
The monstrous bucket of wellness...
I...the parasite,
Sit and stare at a book I can barely read,
Stealing glimpses of their ethereal amour;
Their providential coquetting.
An ageing witch...satiated
Her hair...dripping contentment...

"Mr. Wood? Your tea, Sir?"
That's Stacy...somebody...
Startled, I flip the hardbound straight.
She leaves the cup of goodness beside me,
A cup of aromatic minimum, as a bait...
Her willow hair, her ocean stare, my aphrodisiac;
An inviting smile, and she walks back,
To my cabin, a hundred yards from this bench.

I sip from one requisite, and move to another...
And walk a hundred yards...from a third...
My eternal break, my standing abode;
A bench, a willow, and of course,
Lake Lostbottom...