Photo © 1999 - Russ Lilly, Ravenna, OH



 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

I DO PUMPKINS

He was as young
as my son
were I to have one
with a blatant facade
of sincerity as he asked
to conform to my hotel room
with his interpreted promises
But I left him as bold-faced
as the clock that had already
run out of more time than we
could surrender
 
 
 
 

SENSORIAL

His scent infected my senses
Festered into an uncontrollable
eruption in his sheets Convulsing
and hyperventilating as the fever
flowed out my pores and left
me tingling into better health
 
 
 
 

CONTENTMENT
(plus or minus)

The clock is closer to midnight
than you are to me
the rain is remorseful
outside our air-conditioned windows
Years have glued shut our doors
(Not that we have places to go
anyway)
My arm extends fully
to touch your soft side
There is a small sound
of awareness
which I am satisfied with
and we breathe gently
in the darkness of our marriage
and dream of Caribbean lust
 
 
 
 

MY PUDDING

flowed as the beers also
Inhibitions like sweat
leaving my body in this
heat you are staring into
my every pore Touching
just so perfectly as to
just suggest even invite
I want to kiss your words
when you finally ask me
I want to feel your need take
my arm as we leave into a
darkness we must forget
when it is over I want to
know my name as it fills
the air about the room
and stain with my
lasting taste
 
 
© 1997
Cheryl A. Townsend


 
 


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