PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

On Friday, August sixth of nineteen seventy-six,

BlueShift and I altered our customary routine to

spend the evening at the home of his sister,

CoffeeCup---because her husband, CoffeeMug, had

been required to work a twelve hour shift of overtime

(General Motors, the area's chief employer, often

treated its employees like that).  When I arrived,

BlueShift had already taken his shoes off and

untucked the tails of his button-down shirt, which

hung open frontally.  CoffeeCup had prepared a meal of

Tacos, with highly spicy meat and all the fixings.

BlueShift and I ate so much that CoffeeCup served us

glasses of bicarbonate of soda to ease our stuffed

stomachs.  While CoffeeCup played with her small

son, CoffeePerk, outside, BlueShift and I began to

play a card game (the name of which I have wholly

forgotten:  in my declining old age, I have been

robbed by a cunning thief, Forgetfulness, of

important facts like that) at the kitchen table.

I soon became very aware that, under the table

top, and beneath his jeans' frayed, tattered cuffs,

BlueShift's feet, sheathed in midnight blue (and

highly aromatic) socks, were resting on my kneecaps.

I already suffered from early arthritis in those

joints, so the pressed warmth felt very good; but, for

me, it was also highly erotic.  Because we usually

watched horror films at the drive-in theaters, we

decided that we would watch one of the several locally

broadcast Shock Theaters. When the time came to put the

cards away, BlueShift feigned surprise that his feet had

been on my knees and not on the table legs.  I really

believe that, from the look on his face, he had known

exactly where his feet had been resting and that, in the

parlance of the Seventies, he had "turned me on" with the gesture.