My Pleasure.

My Pleasure      

Whenever I phoned the Sonesta Hotel                                   

and asked for the health club, 

the operator, 

a woman, 

always responded,

“My pleasure,” 

and with those two words—

the whole “white-tablecloth-

candle-lit-flowers-in-the-room-

plush-white-bathrobe-experience”

would wash over me. 

She never said, “No problem,” or 

“Of course, right away,”  

but simply,

“My pleasure,” 

as if she had it in abundance,

and had been just

waiting for my call 

to give me some.

“No problem” has 

so much winter in it. 

I wither when 

I should be thankful, but

“My pleasure,” 

are words 

my spirit and body long for—

transport me to a 

wine velvet couch 

before a roaring fire 

while the blizzard of 

busyness rages outside.

A post from Molecule Ascending suggested this very apt painting Danae by Klimt.