Her in a tight

black miniskirt

hugging her

hourglass figure

me, scraggly unshaven face

reading a poem about

a radical armchair

my tie dyed shirt is

faded and oversized

even on my expanding belly

She tilts her head

as though examining

my every word

Her eyes are blue

leaving temptation

for comparisons to sky or sea

She doesn’t seem to mind

my balding scalp or even

the expanding waistline

or my eyes badly dilated

by consumption of weed and brandy

I raise and lower my voice

to correspond to the emotions

expressed in the poem

I flail my arms wildly

and nod my head

to accentuate the verse

I steal a momentary glance

into her blue eyes

for a clue

revealing what her

true intentions are

Nothing gained; nothing ventured;

the words of the poem

form on my lips

I seek her attention

through the grandeur

of my performance

and apparently gain it

her eyes follow the words

as they crystalize from

soul to open air

I glance at her nonchalantly;

a dirty poem calls

for an obscene gesture

now she’s either hot to trot

or totally turned off

We’ll know soon enough

in either case

She continues to devour

my performance with

intense eyes suggesting assent

I read my poem alive to her

as the rest of the audience

slips away into

some form of oblivion

In this rapturous moment

she is the sole receiver

of the poetry

and I bide my time

till the end of the performance

and hope we continue

the rapture late into night


Published by fuchebuyahoocom

poet, philosopher and comic. Philadelphia born but suburban bred.

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