PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Slender adolescent limbs, complexion like cinnamon, and

waist-length cascades of silken-gleaming, auburn hair:  a

tavern server, he brought to our table the first wine.  The

others---ready to drink; I told him I did not imbibe.  I

glanced at his agile, unshod feet---looking mighty fine.  No

haters' prejudice, and no foreboding inhibition obscured

quickened winks and shy smiles, exchanged with precision.

Later, with the western setting of the day's swollen sun, he

came with me to my room at the inn; soon, our bared bodies

provided us with pleasures no words can quite describe.

Due to take ship to Tarshish, I declined, and chose to stay

with him asleep next to me, after Love:  and on my shoulder,

his slumbering head---and that mane of hair, spilled all

over my right arm around him.  His glistening SweetSpray,

previously e'lated on my torso, lent its freshly seductive

fragrance to the air in that small chamber---the cost of which

had seemed steep at first, but now well worth it.  Near, but

not one of the besotted partiers (some of them members of a 

secret society (of which they had chattered drunkenly and far

too verbosely), a rather troubled man seemed eager to take my

berth on the Tarshish run.  I was glad to give it to him (the

fare being unrefundable on the eve of departure):  I think he

said his name is Ben Amittai.  Just a passing mention of

Nineveh visibly upset him; yes, very visibly, most certainly. 

J-Called