Breath of elephants

You know those times
when a man won't do,
not even a big man
in fireman's uniform,
and your sleep is fitful?
That's when you dream of elephants.
Big herds that stand
round, sniff you out
and if they like you,
which they always do, in dreams,
flap their ears and tell you
in low rumblings that you may
sniff back. They smell of wood
and salt, their breath smells
of wet leaves. You reach
out to stroke a trunk,
which is rough except after rain
when the velvet stands proud.
They feel you back,
run fingery trunk ends
down your arm, exploring
your useless skin,
too soft for weather,
then gently they lean.
You have won their approval.
The matriarch steps forward,
wraps her trunk tight
around your waist
and lifts you high,
you're crowned.